>> / Fleda Brown

. . Poems Fleda Brown

. . Poems Fleda Brown.

 

/ Fleda Brown, (. 1944) - .

 

I Write My Mother a Poem

SometimesIfeelhereasingfurtherintohergrave,
resigned,asalways,andIhavetocometoherrescue.
Likenow,whenIhavesomuchelsetodo.Notthat

she'dwantapoem.Shewouldhavebeenproud,ofcourse,
ofallitsmystery,involvingher,butscaredalittle.
Hereyeswouldhavefilledwithtears.Italwayscomes

tothat,Idon'tknowwhyIbother.Onegesture
andshe'sgonedownawellofrawfeeling,andI'mleft
aloneagain.Iavertmyeyes,tokeepfromscaringher.

Onherdresserisoneofthoseoldglassbottles
ofJergen'sLotionwiththeblacklabel,alittleround
bottleofMumdeodorant,awhiteplastictray

withAvonnecklacesandearrings,pennies,paperclips,
andalargeblackcoatbutton.Iappeartobevery
interestedintheseobjects,eveninterestedinthesun

throughtheblinds.Itfallsacrossherface,andnot,
asshechangesthebed.Shewouldratherhavecleansheets
thanmypoem,butaslongasIdon'tbotherher,she'sglad

toknowIcare.She'stalkedmyfatherintotaking
adrivelater,stoppingforanA&Wrootbeer.
Sheisdreamingoffoamontheglass,thetraypropped

onthecarwindow.Andtrees,farmhouses,theexpanse
oftheworldasseenfrominsidethecar.Itisno
usetotrytogetherouttowatchairplanes

takeoff,orwalkatrail,orhearthispoem
andofferanythingmorethan"Isn'tthatsweet!"
RightnowbombsareexplodinginKosovo,students

shotinColorado,andmymotheriswearingarootbeer
mustache.Hereyesareunfocused,everything'srootbeer.
Iwriterootbeer,rootbeer,tomakeherhappy.

 

Through Security

I take off my boots because of their steel shanks.
I take out my orthotics, place my coat and purse in the bin,
place my carry-on on the belt. I take off my shirt, my jeans,
my bra. I take out my contacts. I take off my makeup
and earrings, strip the dye from my hair. I relax my stomach
to its honestly protruding shape. Still, its all over the TVs
about me. Im buzzed again as if theres been no progress at all
since the club-carrying, the dragging-by-the-hair. I take off
my skin, veins flying like ropes, organs dropping away
one by one. I address the additional matter of bones:
unfasten ball from socket, unhook ligaments,
leave the electronic eye no place to rest.
I am almost ready to go, if I could quit
thinking, the thinking that goes on
almost without knowing, the tiny person
crossing her legs in the back
of the mind, the one who
says, I still love you,
dear guilty flesh.

. . Poems Fleda Brown
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