| Featured Poet: Margaret Walther |
| The Motherlode She hones in, looking for the honey. The shoes loom. Before she came, I washed dishes, scrubbed our apartment floors. You picked up all your little trucks and cars. But there they are--brown, cracked, full of life--manshoes, peeking out beneath the couch. Tensed, I stare at you. Your malemouth trembles, your tongue, a tiny oar, lifts into the water. I hauled them up from downstairs, you whisper. From the babysitter’s? Yes. The woman slumps. She has lost her ore. I am filled with relief. The welfare check will continue as usual. You, the good son, enter your sterile room, become a stone. |
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