Lucía M. Polis 30 years
the poetry of

This poem appears in We Were Hateful People.

if you read this  mother
i want to show you my
wishlist spreadsheets

if you read this  mother
i want to whisper sour nothings
to you

        each word an electron cloud
        each word a horizontal scar
       (perhaps a star


if you read this  mother
you know my strife  how to my lover
I must shout "come! foreignize my life

        how gently she doth move the carriage
        how gingerly she feeds the shaft
        the lead screw and the compound rest

     my love is working on a train of thought
     my love is stripping now
     her mettle for my metal


and for my final test
 I see
        I conquer and I come

the bed that holds it all
the tool comes into play
the turning handle

                and peninsulas of flesh
                with penances beneath
                o mother


the things i want to do to her
with my remaining teeth
      halt! hold!

      das Urlicht kommt
      and what was broken once
      is nearly done

o if you read this mother
you'll remember the first thing
that i had learned upon the violin


        was how to hold it
        with my chin  like this
              begins all circumstance

with holding  on my walk i see
a cormorant  a crow
two old men linking hands

my pain is seaweed green
it is obscene  and yet
it is all mine


         and even here endure
         so infinitely barbed
         the endless hang tens of a wire

at all cost  arrival is a rival
how many times a day can die a man?
o mother  twenty? ten?

                           out from the garden
                           i can see the greenhouse
                           what's inside?


the startled beast
the mangled corpse
the broken sword

         the tilted ghost  on foot due east
         and memories of which
         i have no recollection

   oh and dreams
   o mother  if you read this
   my suffering is nearly done


         (still there but dulled
          what kind of plant is that?
          what kind of bird?

                  you know this
                  that the best of pleasures are
                  hard earned

            like wood
            like birth
            the opening of unforgiving earth


    her immolation on the spit of man
    a fist fit for a queen
    a joinery of flesh

       the breast is blessed
       the rear guard corrects the music
       with a pencil

 o mother  ruhig sein
 there is no place for fear here
 no one watches the unforgiving sun


      it sleeps in fits and snatches
      as do I  while children singe the stencil
      i like you better in white light

but her i do prefer in blue
where cushions hang like corpses
fabrics' weft and weave

           they guide my eye and hand
           i miss the shape of her
           o mother  do you understand?


   step one  you nestle seasoned fish
   into the sauce  step two  you make
   a note of what to do as last resort

 step three  declare jihad upon
 the pitcher  does every broad a door
 a nazi? hah! I've seen a woman in a kitchen

           the ghost of christmas past
           is nestled in a cask  and in the end
           all children would be bastards


      o mother
      you have lost
      if you must ask