In elementary faculty, my mom rides the pink bus to “protection class.”
Station one she crosses a brook with knotted rope.
Station two she bandages somebody’s leg. Station three
she affixes her gasoline masks and crawls the trail to station 4,
the place she eats goulash with pals. They stroll dwelling singing
The golden gate is open, opened with a golden key.
Grown, when defenseless towards “mud within the blood,” caught
on the base of the steps with a weighted head, she brings herself
open air. Station one she climbs a step. Station two
she climbs a step. In my front room hangs a portray
that reads, “The rope on the finish of the rope.”
In my mom’s front room is a window
the place I watch her feed the grackles from her hand.
