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