RBG, Mother, Sculptor

 

An analytic of years for the sculptor to feel space as it can fill and be called,

the object of our desires bulbous and red as fruit,

elongated as the eviscerated stomach

with its tubes of stretched intestine or the heart

with a honey hue purpled by the faded reds and blue of youth to a bruise of age,

a grey of stopping to see how the stands and wires, drapings and pastiche

can make us feel again as on that morning, with evidence everywhere for all to see

that being brought into the world was a baby,

my mother, bringer of world, open of next generations making consideration

of angle, volume and its relation within

as space allows.

 

We are allowed to follow out or in the train of thought,

 the lobster picking over morsels on the sea floor.

We are trained to see that in the eye of you is me.

Brought to the edge of a puzzling skin,

the feeling of our touch everywhere abrades the fortunate despot

now a pauper in the rain, in the chain of right actions caught as the

victims were with severed hands and untreatable lesions,

the power of one judge laying down to die with everyone around.

 

RBG and the seeing.

The title of truth is innumerable but not worthless in delicate profusion,

bent in utility to justice,

lost to the abstract of language is our living daily nation,

the people adjusting bifocals with sun, morning coffee and the news.

Cast abouts available for nefarious purposes,

the old gogglers with prejudice and hurt feelings,

dry skin, constipation and still a belief, timid as other men’s wives

that the sacrosanct is sound, the self built on bricks and

this eating away is a temporary quality of levees and age.

We may as well call them right for all of the partiality of perspective.

Who is to know the true privilege of I but we and what everybody says

with a slight variation on what everyone said before.

 

The scholars can tell us what language they were using for such nuance.

The good lawyers can further the cause and proclaim the reach of reason,

law and the rights of the individual to dissent with or without articulation.

The individual I always nested in the muddle of all other,

the perception of need and resource

as flux to water level

that presses the reservoir shore. 

Who but I can say how it feels to be wet, submerged in her sense of soul’s sweet drift,

air mattress in the pool, drink in hand, cars musty in the garage.

 

Reason not the need

of pounding horses, the drought of the plains and right of kings

failing in the rule of greater nature,

souls leaking, eye twitches and muscle palsy

where torture is the means and agreement the norm

as dark hours follow light and

the one in her cell, be she prisoner or monk, has traveled far with child,

sure it is an other for reflection to bear sweet as cloud on water

the face of beloved many,

each eye as to the fulsome fruit ripe on the branch of the nation’s tree,

a skin so roundly containing next seed that as she is burst open,

as a frenzy of Fall leaves circle,

the bower of creation blinks

as in poverty humanity can not quite imagine the solid future

sure to meld and hold disparity as a tomb or basket.