Happy Mother’s Day
The bus is full, the driver is a young ex cattle mover, we violently sway so as to a keep the wild in him. A pregnant young woman sits next to me, at times holding her swelling belly at times crushing her thumbs. Her head takes three second looks in every direction, she is not searching for anything just nervously trying to escape her self. It is mother’s day, not for her, this will be her first.
Inside my brain a bottle of wine heads control of my neurons, I am going through spasmodic thoughts, my belly feels pregnant with sulfurous movements, my back aches, an arrow was dashed into it and the arrow is gone but the wound remains, a hostile steady gazing agony causing me to hunch and to straiten out to try to sway the pain off balance, it keeps, the seesaw effect only serves to give me a different irritation which knocks between polar agonies.
I decide to empty the bus of myself, I follow a mother with her few children, she is carrying a rose, a medal for all her progeny. The street does not thank my arrival, I feel the evening stumble into my body and retreat and yet persist, I think to myself I am tired of guessing life all wrong. I walk the rough sidewalks and the rough people and the rough lights, and my eyes hurt from the incessant intrusions and I say to myself, I am tired of all this harshness.
There is gutter smells everywhere, yet I stumble into lofty thoughts about humanity, I walk into five churches, and in each altar I send my mother a happy mother’s day confession. I was a bad son, I withheld my love from her, I ushered my grief into her life, I demanded what I was not ready to give, I condemned what I would do myself; I kept going into each church sending her these messages while deploring my lack of faith; I thought of lighting a few naked candles but a mild fence kept them out of reach, I walked out of each church thinking I would give a penny to a beggar, giving was my mother’s cause, I did not give anything, instead a beggar, which did dare approach me, met with my disdain and I challenged him away.
With the money I saved on the frightened beggar I bought myself more wine, mother always worried about my drinking, and I drank; I drank three more bottles of wine and barely managed to walk a straight line in any direction but that which might be round. I would cry upon seeing mothers with their flowers, and when I spotted their families I would feel, “I can’t say happy mothers day to mine.” My chest swelling agonies, never again can I say happy mothers day to mine. Nor could my lack of faith say it on my after life.
When mom was here I always promised myself to be the loving son that she deserved but then all the times that I saw her the reigning power of our abusive world would surge to hinder loving gentleness. To my mom, love could resolve all the worlds’ problems; today I know she was right, it is just so damn hard to put love into baby formula.
The pregnant young woman must have gotten off the bus, before that cattle herder bus driver would get a chance to kill her and save her from her son.
RC
Inside my brain a bottle of wine heads control of my neurons, I am going through spasmodic thoughts, my belly feels pregnant with sulfurous movements, my back aches, an arrow was dashed into it and the arrow is gone but the wound remains, a hostile steady gazing agony causing me to hunch and to straiten out to try to sway the pain off balance, it keeps, the seesaw effect only serves to give me a different irritation which knocks between polar agonies.
I decide to empty the bus of myself, I follow a mother with her few children, she is carrying a rose, a medal for all her progeny. The street does not thank my arrival, I feel the evening stumble into my body and retreat and yet persist, I think to myself I am tired of guessing life all wrong. I walk the rough sidewalks and the rough people and the rough lights, and my eyes hurt from the incessant intrusions and I say to myself, I am tired of all this harshness.
There is gutter smells everywhere, yet I stumble into lofty thoughts about humanity, I walk into five churches, and in each altar I send my mother a happy mother’s day confession. I was a bad son, I withheld my love from her, I ushered my grief into her life, I demanded what I was not ready to give, I condemned what I would do myself; I kept going into each church sending her these messages while deploring my lack of faith; I thought of lighting a few naked candles but a mild fence kept them out of reach, I walked out of each church thinking I would give a penny to a beggar, giving was my mother’s cause, I did not give anything, instead a beggar, which did dare approach me, met with my disdain and I challenged him away.
With the money I saved on the frightened beggar I bought myself more wine, mother always worried about my drinking, and I drank; I drank three more bottles of wine and barely managed to walk a straight line in any direction but that which might be round. I would cry upon seeing mothers with their flowers, and when I spotted their families I would feel, “I can’t say happy mothers day to mine.” My chest swelling agonies, never again can I say happy mothers day to mine. Nor could my lack of faith say it on my after life.
When mom was here I always promised myself to be the loving son that she deserved but then all the times that I saw her the reigning power of our abusive world would surge to hinder loving gentleness. To my mom, love could resolve all the worlds’ problems; today I know she was right, it is just so damn hard to put love into baby formula.
The pregnant young woman must have gotten off the bus, before that cattle herder bus driver would get a chance to kill her and save her from her son.
RC
posted by Ricardo Correa at 9:52 PM
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