Tag Archives: mother

10 Ways to Destroy the Earth

my mother died in this room
now it is occupied by my nieces
whenever they sleep over
a playroom

i currently occupy it
sleeping on the lower bunk of their little ikea bunk bed
under a disney princess sleeping bag
my eyes fixed on the bunk above
where I keep my guitar
some clothes
some makeup
a sweater
maybe this is where my slow implosion began
maybe this is where it will end
i wonder how?

my mother died in this room
still believing that i was an eldest son
strong and independent
today i am not one of these
today i am her youngest daughter
born posthumously
thereby weak and howling

in the other room my father watches a show called
“10 Ways to Destroy the Earth”
one of those ways is to be trapped between two black holes
endlessly consumed
attenuated into nothing

November, 2015


willard harris

grandfather harris
i just learned that you have a first name

i have never seen you
to me you were only a whispered
story of a house painter
drunken broken back
from a long fall

i think of my sister
now a house painter
her injuries

mom always said
you were a hobo
i decided long ago
this was her romantic fiction
you were just a bum

her narrative has ended
and for this reason
i am curious
about her origin story
so i ask my father because he is now the only one left

from him i learn that you were
intelligent and unreliable
uncomfortable in your own skin
unsure how to behave
like me

i learn
that you were in the great war
that you really were a hobo
that you didn’t lose your hair
that you had a moment of grace at the end
before you got brain cancer

i learned that my parents worried
that i would be, like you
a drunk
or crazy
a bum

mom once said
that you and i are
similar in a way that frightened her

now that i know you better
i feel the same way

Moores Hill
July, 2014