Mommy’s Boy By John Grey

 

 

 

Your mother expressed her love
with spells, blood rites,
chanting high up in the hills at dawn.

Your father was an accountant,
clam-lipped most of the time,
and never once made a case
for human feeling.

But your mother taught you
how to wave a wand,
dissect a frog
in search of parts for potions,
where to stick a needle in a doll
for maximum effect
and the easiest, neatest way
to sacrifice a chicken.

Your father was no fisherman,
didn’t hunt, drive a car,
and had no interest in sports.
There was nothing you could learn from him.

But there’s no shame in being a mommy’s boy.
You’d never have raised the dead otherwise.

 


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.