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MOTHER’S
DAY
There
is a goddess in the garden and she kills
to
make her pets, petunia, squirrel, worm,
function
the more by snipping and digging holes.
The
mother of creation now instils
medicinal
order. To see the pear
conform
she
prunes with secateurs the vine that trails.
Beyond
the pond there is a statue of her,
an
Attic Aphrodite with her power
petrified,
a long way from the seas
where
sexily she rose as waves rolled over
her
pubic sensitivities to shower
the
gaping earth with babies and with trees.
Now
that her babes are here, the pigs and plants,
she
rations them her hand, gives them a share
of
what is good for them, but saves herself
for
what her nature needs, the later dance
of
life becoming autumn everywhere,
when
she will look into its other half.
Alan
Marshfield
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