Late that wet April Mom flew

out the backdoor, dress full

of steam like a lover in Chagall.


I followed the fragments

her shadow cast down through

the trees like specks of dust,


spied as she rooted herself

in the lumpy mattress of a trailer

park painter. He breathed loudly


in her ear: "I paint with my pecker."

Then shaved and stretched the goatskin

canvas he prepared from his pet,


and served the meat roasted as a snack.

Portrait finished, she cradled the piece

by the hairy edges over the threshold


of the prefab door. The grass

went flat under her feet, weighed down

by this rural Lautrec of her eating


roses. Still wet, the paint dripped

like blood. Showgirl-giddy, I swayed,

her son, her own confused creation.

Michael Graber

If you've any comments on his poem, Michael Graber would be pleased to hear from you.