POETRYREPAIRS 11.02: 019
Mama Land by LYN LIFSHIN
Daisies Mama on the Day of Your Birth
Ring
POETRYREPAIRS v 11.02: 019
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
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All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge





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LYN LIFSHIN
Daisies Mama on the Day of Your Birth
tho probably upstate NY little was blooming, a few May flowers, the reason, without a middle name for you, hoping for a boy, the name of the month was enough. May, Frieda May, mother, Mama, Mommy, Ma. "You can't go," I'd howl when you left for just a night, to leave for ever, unbearable. I was Bambi watching her mother go up in flame, helpless, hounded. I should not be thinking of when you went but when you came to that ramshackle town no other Jews lived in with flats above the store and an egg you remember was black inside. Your mother's first, as I was yours. I wonder if she was startled, as much in awe of you as you always were of me from my first night to your last when you kept calling out only for your mother, for me
POETRYREPAIRS 11.02: 019
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Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





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Daisies Mama on the Day of Your Birth Ring navigation  
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LYN LIFSHIN
Ring
Lets say you, even though you know I mean I, found this ring in your mother's closet in a shoe box of what mattered: letters from the man she couldn't marry, pale blue ink on blue paper, bluesy letters. Papers from the dog she would never not long for. Then you see the ring, Clara, etched on the 18 k gold. Do you feel you've been shaken by a ghost tho the name's not familiar? Or maybe you ask every living relative, most who won't be for long: Who is Clara? If I were you, I'd write poems with that title, put the ring in a safe deposit box. What would you think, before a trip to Peru, getting a letter that Clara Lazarus died without a will? Would you try to track her down, you with the ring in your drawer or lock box? Go to the deaths in Wilmington where all the Lazaruses lived? Lets say you are leaving for Paris, not Peru and the lawyers want you to sign. Wouldn't you like some family history? Something about this woman whose ring in a room you used to sleep in mystifies? In testate they will tell you it takes so long, how they will search Europe for more relatives. Wouldn't you want to know more about this Clara whose finger is close to the size of your own? The family tree they wrap the check in is a mess. Jesus, you knew more not even hearing of Clara. When you go to slide on the ring, as if to enter her life the only way you can, the ring is missing. On the one you thought it was, nothing is etched inside. After months of re-checking jewel boxes, banks, would you begin to think her name could have dissolved? If it had slid thru your fingers, would you think it is elusive as a soul?
POETRYREPAIRS 11.02: 019
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