Sunday, May 10, 2015


There is in love two strange perfections. In The Stranger, mother was already dead, and so perfect as the plot's origin. I don't remember the rest. Odd that it's American teens' first French novel; confront your existence in simple sentences. Verb forms are like lost wax, time impressed in the hollow of a phrase. An orange cone sits in the middle of an enormous puddle. That draws our eyes. There are two mothers to each of my children, a plaintive arithmetic. I thank them for our sums. Our algebra is not linear, but punctuated; verbs cross paths in costume. Even after she hurdled over the railing of the ninth floor parking structure, she looked happy on Instagram. Left gifts for her family on the roof, chocolates and an iPod. The one question Camus asked, my teacher said, regarded suicide. He opted for mystery, being's extension. Hair pieces more perfect than the real, thicker and more curly. The last photo was of a city park, drenched by street lamps. From a wooden bench, another woman takes the photograph.

Mother's Day
--10 May 2015


Janet said...

I love Confront your existence in simple sentences, & into the next sentence. I'm not sure why 2 mothers per child is a plaintive arithmetic; it seems to me to be plentiful, though if you talk about the distance as you draw the lines from each child to other mother, that is both plaintive and creates a plane, doesn't it?

Karen said...

Suicidal mother's day poem: but of course! I love how this unfolds both as sad and (oddly) as triumphant. "two strange perfections": indeed. Why is it that leaving chocolates feels haunting, and leaving an iPod feels frivolous? It must be my regard for chocolate versus electronics. Good one, S.

susan said...

I don't know, I find the gifts very moving. Though the iPod seems to replicate the instagram bit, the instant photo that becomes a last testament. A lovely photo it was, too.