The Botereid

Saturday, November 06, 2004

Homero's Painting At the Student Exhibition

My mother in her pearl nightgown hovers
By the green glass table. Her hands
Push in her bloodless face. Her mouth
Gapes like a flooding drain, and so her scream

Doesn’t sound. The burglar, wearing my brown
Sheepskin coat and faded green jeans,
Browses through our dull property
With a smile borne by his well-done work.

The tiny portrait of my mother’s young
Dead brother, with his dumb finch face,
And the wooden car in his hands—
He who had the decent sense to start well

And leave early—it still hangs in the hall,
By the door. Yes, I know that howl
Cresting over the audience.
I always bring it for Homero’s work.

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