Joe’s mother clapped him on the back
With pride. Strong, she’d say, like an announcement,
Nodding. Her one hand cupped the air, his coat,
And thumped. Halved applause. My son, the boxer,
Stories of him (to other mothers) began.
Every morning, before school, Joe
Ran those streets. He’d pull his sweatshirt tight
Around his shoulders until he felt his back
Hot and damp. The grey cloth clung,
Dappled, another skin, camouflage.
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I am so glad I read your poem first. Once I saw the picture I couldn't take my eyes off of his heel.
ReplyDeleteThis poem wakes up the photo. I can't help but wonder as I see him stride away, how many steps he will take away from his mother before he tries to replace her with a wife...who is just like her.
ReplyDeleteGreat work!
Kirie
Thanks for the comment on my blog. I've read a bit of your stuff here and it's great! I really dig your project. I'm looking forward to reading more in the little bits of free time I can snatch.
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