(Eve) Talking to Herself (Mother’s Day)

Amy Dryansky

You start where you always start, with the body. You like

to get close, imagine body as landscape, yourself supine

among furred hills, muscular plains. Let’s be more specific.

You’re restless. Let’s be direct. You’re unreliable.

You shift. You’re itching to get back to that dark, leafy spot

where you trampled the grass, culminated your heart out,

crossed innocence, that narrow divide. When it comes

to infidelity you’re torn. You’re tempted to define it

as being faithful to what you really are. Let’s talk

about that, what you really are: turned earth, sticky pith,

bitter milk of dandelion stems. Admit it. In this creation

no matter what gets sowed you’ll always be slut,

never gardener. Who wouldn’t ache for something new?

You keep busy. You count all the beasts, catalogue

every flying, crawling, swimming, wriggling, curled-up,

unfurling you can find. You’ve got books, big ideas.

But you’re forever cleaning up somebody else’s feathers

and wax. Leaning on a broom, giving in to nostalgia

as robins burble their evening song, you watch a boy

aim for the net, over and over. You almost feel the ball

leave his hands, each near miss trailing a helix

of disappointment and aspiration. Awkwardness

punctuated by grace. A boy becoming what he is. Making

what he can make. Practicing. You made him that way.


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