Mothers Over Nangarhar. Pamela Hart

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Mothers Over Nangarhar - Pamela Hart Kathryn A. Morton Prize in Poetry

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WHO ASKED ABOUT NEGOTIATING DIFFERING PERSPECTIVES WITH MY SON IF THERE ARE ANY WHILE SUPPORTING HIS CHOICE

      In the video he stands at the plastic yellow-and-blue easel

      A big sheet of paper is covered with slashes and drips

      His awkward grip on the brush

      Our old dog lumbering into the scene

      Dog and boy hug

      Keep going I say

      Cars splash through melting

      snow on pavement

      Drip drip goes

      the gutter

      Can I stop he asks

      Back then I did not see how morning made us

      We moved unevenly through the day

      filling it with fine motor skills and bad food

      I did not recognize that paint on paper

      one winter afternoon

      would be anything more

      than what it was which was

      that he didn’t finish

      and the dog wandered

      out of the frame

      Shell casings ricochet off my arm

      flicker like hummingbirds

      Hot from flight they snag

      in the weave of my sweater

      Such beautiful moltings and scatterlings

      these brassy hearts

      The gun’s barrel is domestic gray

      like a pen in my hand

      To know what you know I load

      seventeen hollow-point

      bullets to nest

      in the chamber

      I squeeze the trigger of the spring-loaded frame

      as one shot a thousand feet

      per second flies toward the target

      its jolt tangling my hair

      We pass around Jane’s photo

      In black & white a helmet

      covers her soldier’s face

      Somewhere in Afghanistan there’s news

      We complain that we don’t know

      how things are going

      I worry about my son’s going

      & stroke the edges of Jane’s photo

      Like a charm, it shields my knowing

      the specifics of his helmet

      I guard against too much news

      but headlines mark my face

      Every war zone is a face

      scarred by combat’s goings

      Jane anticipates bad news

      wonders if unevenness in the photo

      means her soldier’s tilted helmet

      is a sign of unknown knowns

      Mary panics that she doesn’t know

      Searches blurry images for faces

      & declares history like a helmet

      sings with soldiers’ going

      I notice how light in Jane’s photo

      slants in shadows across some news

      We’re good at dodging news

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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