this morning I pulled a picture of my mother from my mouth

27 Jan

Sometimes, no matter how much we try or how much we want to, we can’t get rid of things. They are constant, stagnant.

You confound me every day. You are not who you look like. You are not you. Look at your tiny eyes and lips.

Their value dissipated, they remain. The way we can’t get rid of memories, the smell of cigarettes. The way that we can’t stop taking what we read and applying it to what we know, what we have. When I read this piece, published at [PANK] by Rachel Bunting, after my brain slowed down and my eyes seemed able to see again, I couldn’t get it out of me. It refused to go away.

Oh how you hate to be humid.

I read it over and then I read it again. Today, I went back to it. I printed it off and read it out loud and then I pinned it on my wall. And now, as I read it once more to write about it, all I can think is that some things keep coming back. That this piece could be read a hundred times and not lose its value.

Your sharp edges. Yes, you confound me.

One Response to “this morning I pulled a picture of my mother from my mouth”

  1. rebunting February 24, 2014 at 3:59 pm #

    Hi! Thanks for the really lovely things you’ve said here about my poem. I’m glad that it stuck with you in some way. I randomly stumbled across this blog entry, and it was a delight to find this on a Monday afternoon! Best, Rachel

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