March 2018
John David Muth
comnenus2@yahoo.com
comnenus2@yahoo.com
Being a lifelong native of New Jersey and an advisor for college sophomores, I have cultivated a love for satire that usually translates into my writing. This group of poems tones down my usual snark. They depict my mother's final days, which also coincided with my engagement, an event she had long awaited. My first two collections of poetry, A Love for Lavender Dragons and Inevitable Carbon, were published by Aldrich Press. They are currently available on Amazon.com.
FOUR POEMS IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER
Reassure the Phoenix
I imagine you in a blizzard
trying to keep afloat
within an ocean of cancer medication
watching me on the shoreline
waiting for me to find shelter
before you stop swimming.
You want me to find someone
as most mothers do
so I won’t be alone
holding my hand
as we walk through a maze
of half-buried mirror shards
pulling me onwards
more vehemently now than ever before
stabbing me gently
with a blunt-tipped bayonet
as you tell me to brush
the lint from my tuxedo jacket.
After forty-four years of searching
there are more than a few
holes in the fabric
and cut marks on my face.
Even you bleed
though you try to hide it.
Desperation never suited you
unnatural and incongruous
and I would rather have you with me
enjoying the time that remains
than watch new love rise
like a phoenix from your ashes.
Bowie Knives and a Dropped Eucharist
The hospital chaplain
came to visit my mother,
asked her if she wanted Communion.
Head bowed,
a golden bowl of wafers in her hand
she asked for the intercession
of Jesus, Mary, and St. Michael
and I could not help but smirk
being 99% atheist
reserving only that 1%
for the possibility of a disinterested
prime mover.
She placed the Host
on my mother’s dry tongue
and I imagined her pancreas
as a saloon in the Old West
where a malignant tumor
throws a drink of whiskey
in the face of her diabetes.
They draw Bowie Knives
and slash one another red.
During the prayer
one wafer fell from the bowl.
I was the only one who noticed
but kept silent
even after the service was over.
Stay on the floor,
body of Christ.
Bless the feet of the nurse
who runs from room to room.
Bless the mop of the janitor
that has to clean
my mother’s sick.
It Took Over Forty Years
I can’t remember the last time
we walked alone
side by side.
I was probably a child
sometime in the 70’s
or very early 80’s,
vague memories
when we both had different clothes
and different hair.
The floors of the hospital corridors gleam
contrast with the walls,
scuffed black and chipped
intermittently.
I have a hard time moving at her pace.
At well over six feet,
smaller strides make me clumsy.
We are mostly silent.
She seems to be in another place
and I look around
trying to distract myself
watch the nurses
working at their stations
see the other patients
lying in their beds,
sleeping or watching TV.
The beeping of her monitor
makes my next exclamation
seem like a detonation
when I tell her I am now
engaged to be married.
My mother nods
tells me it’s good
lets out a sigh
that could be exhaustion
or her way of saying
it's about fucking time.
Much Like an Old Novel
Her last day had the atmosphere
of a mid-nineteenth century novel.
It rained hard that night
and into the morning.
The streetlight made a lazy hail
look like snow.
I was a bridge between my fiancée
and my dying mother,
holding their hands
imagining a torch pass
from one to the other
translating her unconscious moaning:
Look out for your father.
Be a good husband.
Try not to be an asshole at work.
The storm ended after she died.
I took out the garbage
needing an excuse
to get out of the house
saw the gray glow of early dawn
heard the faint sound of birds.
Reassure the Phoenix
I imagine you in a blizzard
trying to keep afloat
within an ocean of cancer medication
watching me on the shoreline
waiting for me to find shelter
before you stop swimming.
You want me to find someone
as most mothers do
so I won’t be alone
holding my hand
as we walk through a maze
of half-buried mirror shards
pulling me onwards
more vehemently now than ever before
stabbing me gently
with a blunt-tipped bayonet
as you tell me to brush
the lint from my tuxedo jacket.
After forty-four years of searching
there are more than a few
holes in the fabric
and cut marks on my face.
Even you bleed
though you try to hide it.
Desperation never suited you
unnatural and incongruous
and I would rather have you with me
enjoying the time that remains
than watch new love rise
like a phoenix from your ashes.
Bowie Knives and a Dropped Eucharist
The hospital chaplain
came to visit my mother,
asked her if she wanted Communion.
Head bowed,
a golden bowl of wafers in her hand
she asked for the intercession
of Jesus, Mary, and St. Michael
and I could not help but smirk
being 99% atheist
reserving only that 1%
for the possibility of a disinterested
prime mover.
She placed the Host
on my mother’s dry tongue
and I imagined her pancreas
as a saloon in the Old West
where a malignant tumor
throws a drink of whiskey
in the face of her diabetes.
They draw Bowie Knives
and slash one another red.
During the prayer
one wafer fell from the bowl.
I was the only one who noticed
but kept silent
even after the service was over.
Stay on the floor,
body of Christ.
Bless the feet of the nurse
who runs from room to room.
Bless the mop of the janitor
that has to clean
my mother’s sick.
It Took Over Forty Years
I can’t remember the last time
we walked alone
side by side.
I was probably a child
sometime in the 70’s
or very early 80’s,
vague memories
when we both had different clothes
and different hair.
The floors of the hospital corridors gleam
contrast with the walls,
scuffed black and chipped
intermittently.
I have a hard time moving at her pace.
At well over six feet,
smaller strides make me clumsy.
We are mostly silent.
She seems to be in another place
and I look around
trying to distract myself
watch the nurses
working at their stations
see the other patients
lying in their beds,
sleeping or watching TV.
The beeping of her monitor
makes my next exclamation
seem like a detonation
when I tell her I am now
engaged to be married.
My mother nods
tells me it’s good
lets out a sigh
that could be exhaustion
or her way of saying
it's about fucking time.
Much Like an Old Novel
Her last day had the atmosphere
of a mid-nineteenth century novel.
It rained hard that night
and into the morning.
The streetlight made a lazy hail
look like snow.
I was a bridge between my fiancée
and my dying mother,
holding their hands
imagining a torch pass
from one to the other
translating her unconscious moaning:
Look out for your father.
Be a good husband.
Try not to be an asshole at work.
The storm ended after she died.
I took out the garbage
needing an excuse
to get out of the house
saw the gray glow of early dawn
heard the faint sound of birds.
©2018 John David Muth
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