A Mother Ashamed of Her Past

The world that's mixed up in your silence
Has no place for anyone else
The clatter of your footfall is the fleece
To put readers back in boxes
Even as they weep in lazy colonies
With fans that wave but can't remember;
Jesus can save dust-ridden slatterns
They all sing in unison, while
Their children burn from joy and turn to flames
And ashes that revive the voice
Who battled homesick surf
On radios across the frozen North
And later gobbled ulcer pills so he could drink.

This is what your silence creates:
A hatbox with some rubber bands
And feathers loose on attic chairs,
A cylinder that cannot play
The wax in piles—Ray Anthony.