Mother Of Richard

MOTHER OF RICHARD

Early on in the woods, we have been speakingof when, by which hour, by the blood-black grease gunof predation the honed rake of incisors

on a Tigercat track-saw has been known tothrow an entire tree through a person. Notwithout cause does a logger-mother bring her

knitting with her into the woods, as she ismoved by the larval form of likelihood, bythat which her skin feels crawling. In the moonless

now, it is time for her son Richard to putVenus over his spear-shoulder, in the hourof stumpage, to speak away timber gone rogue

as it falls, the suction of blue marine clayknown to take a machine down whole, the personin it. I have found it best to believe in

next to nothing, only the moving warm frontof narration as he knows it to muscleits way up against masses of chill, speaking

with his helmet in his hands of those who comewith still larger excavation equipment,praise for those who stay until the sun goes down,

while the mother of him comes to have the factsbrought to her out of the undergrowth feet first,to wait in the truck cab as she would beside

her fire in an earlier story, while I,blood-mother of not anyone, will be off-boilingfruit and stain, pressed with it through the sieve.