Mother's Day, 2011.

A new one of mine,after watching Claire Denis' film,
White Material. And thinking about all of us mothers,
and especially, mothers of sons...

(But let there be no room for doubt: my sons know where
they stand on this one. And can´t let mother's day
talk go by without thanking them for whom they have become!)

 First revision:  December  12, 2023

Mother’s Day  (A. T., 2011)

 

.

My mare and I climb
the last dirt road of the

outskirts, past the smokey lot
where some boys at their

half toothless end of childhood

wave at me.  A wisecrack or two,

they return to business    fanning debris

into flame:       a red t-shirt,  

coke bottles, milk cartons,

little plastic pools forming

over layers of stone and broken

asphalt. We meander the hill

         to its apex        to the boulder

overlooking this little top of the world

a place where it seems we are truly alone,

just Madja and I     her small ears

flicking backward to capture my voice,

forward again for the perfect canter,

the sandy trail coiling around a wall of stone
and pine trees split open near the root,

and no more than a rein on a halter

to tether our bond.

Return through the village,
my mare dances in careful steps
over hardened sandstone.
One tiny hoof at a time
           she is protecting me
and the foal to be born
when the seasons shift
when the moon changes.

The boys in turn have run off

elsewhere    leaving   
their wrinkled pile of rubble

 the muddy mutts who yap
         underfoot
and the senhoras, who pause in

the yellow winter sun to chat while

arranging their trash bags for pick up.
A girl with baby in arms, is it
              hers?
In last night’s film,
a mother whose son
went up in flame    is
history taking its course as
 on all those days we can do nothing
      to stop it.
We take stony roads     sandy paths

or follow the course of the flood
to the top or the bottom of the world.
Wastelands are burning on both sides.
And no use trying to stop the boys
once they’ve gone awry.