The day has come when my mother
no longer knows me.
It comes on a day of dying
like words torn from a typewriter.
“I think the stomach must have gone to the dark goblins given grace far out in the groping tundras, and learned from them how to magically father the children of heat.”
Time stops. She’d moved
through the tall yellow sage
as they copulated,
stood only a few feet
away, enveloped in the scent
that drew them together.
In Los Angeles I grew up watching The Three Stooges,
The Little Rascals, Speed Racer, and the Godzilla movies,
those my mother called “Los Monstros,” and though I didn’t
yet speak English, I understood why such a creature would,
upon being woken up from its centuries-long slumber, rise
and destroy Tokyo’s buildings, cars, people–
A distended queen with hawthorn boughs, bonfires blazing
Letters in the streets. She will go on watching them, upright &