Mother
By Noah Leventhal
the desert smells like Mother stones
sundial their way across the dunes reeking
of dust and blood and evaporation a lizard
skitters across the scattered sand
each wretched bump in its thorny skin
a testament drooping brittle grass
reaching up and down with thirst
when the ground shakes when the wind
dies when the heat digs deep below
the seas of crust and dust and age
you know Mother cries her paper
eyes out Mother of blessings says time
is an illusion this is why we rebuild cities
this is why the night markets churn
an ancient air with sugar yeast and charcoal
smoke beneath the rubble a Mother
sings her children out of memory the markets
an illusion the Mothers and their songs
of time the wind the stillness of the desert
Mother of capability knows there are no
blessings only candles that flicker and winds
still enough to let them sunsets across the beige
expanse rare things of beauty curtains
in the window frames woven in their likeness
houses return to sand Mother
of capability doesn’t sing at night she eats
and sleeps to meet the sun Mother of sadness
rubs shoulders with Mother of peace Mother
of wickedness trips across Mother of good
will Mother of gentility interrupts Mother
of gaping wounds Mother of dearth and poverty
gives to Mother of the rich Mother of sunrise
lies with Mother of the night Mother of your wishes
warms Mother of your fears a million little deaths
descend a future Mother’s mouth raining upon
the mother of all bombs
Noah Leventhal is a recent graduate of the classics program at St. John’s College in Santa Fe, New Mexico who currently lives in Los Angeles. As the grandson of a holocaust survivor, he was raised on the poetry of hope and resistance. Even on her deathbed, as other thoughts faded away, his grandmother’s tongue could recite Pushkin with perfect precision. Words stick with us, they become a part of who we are. The way we speak changes the way we think, and the way we think is everything.
Photo credit: Seniju via a Creative Commons license.