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Monday, April 2, 2018

American Sentence by Natalie Eilbert


You were born a mother, brought from clay and bottles, a thick mother lube. 

You took it behind your eyes, let the mother lube white into arc. 

You developed doors earlier than most, knew to hinge and syllogize.

Contain the control the conditions at what height one can survive this. 

Your doorknob a lacquered swan, its cast-iron neck curled toward you, begging.

You stroked the neck to open its ballad, let its beak fuse woodenly. 

You developed dresses later than the girl scout leader, that besotted overachiever. 

Every dress worn is lachrymose, chemical set as an heiress strung. 

Fainted with lithium, you pull a CD off the wall, a classic. 

Album with the one single everyone knows, its gold arms inside us. 

Every shoe you wear is designed to remember your unique pressures. 

Every shoe worn subaltern like a mother you bore into yourself. 

You swipe your hotel key and smell the mother lube in the silk curtains. 

You pull yourself into Lululemons and itch the mother lube raw.

You bow your head in praise of, in namaste of, the great mother lube. 

Maybe you walk into a commercial kitchen for a fish in ice. 

Maybe you press the butterfly knife under its mouth, hum the pop song.

You must draw the incision into the volta you’ve been waiting for. 

Your mother's told this story for years to her sisters and coworkers. 

How you pushed yourself out of a restaurant chair to perform kitchen duties. 

Don’t you remember, she asks, when you waltzed over with the beautiful gray fish.

Don’t you remember that you split its seam before us, its little ruby dresses.

The shine of its unblinking a violent phoneme no one would utter. 

You swipe your hotel key and smell the mother lube, put on a bathrobe.   

1 comment:

Radish King said...

Holy Smokes! To wake up to this. Incredible.
Rebecca