1964 (Murray Shugars)

April 7, 2009

My mother stood in the driveway
looking down like an ice-fisher, her legs
steaming from her broken sack of waters.
The Pontiac idled like a furnace in December.
Snow fell through the window
my father rolled down to yell,
Let’s fucking go, will you?

My mother has a scar, her stomach
opened like a window pried with a knife.
There was no struggle
when I was born. She slept.
The doctor lifted me like a small melon
clinging to the vine.

*

My friend Murray Shugars has a new chapbook out from Dos Madres Press. Fittingly, the the book opens with “1964,” a prelude to the other poems collected, which cling to those vines rooted deep within our own past, in the places we grew up.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: