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So, I’m going back to my regular old way of doing things, which is to write my way into it. Yesterday I tried avoiding that, and it was so, so, crazy hard. This afternoon and evening were my first days of a few days of hard-earned vacation. We aren’t going anywhere, but we aren’t going to work either, so we win.

I wrote a whole poem about my daughter today, but it was too family to share. She said some amazing things, and I wrote them down, fully intending to plagiarise her entirely, but I just couldn’t do it.  The only other fragment I have on the brain is something about this:

Vassily’s turquoise eyes are haunting. I love how he says he never took life seriously.

Anyhow, this got me to thinking about Russia, and the word “Motherland”.  I’ve never, ever though of our country as a mother. Fatherland is all that is appropriate for the US. Yes, we’ve had amazing women fighting for women’s rights, and yes, this land, before its ugly nationhood was most certainly the motherland, but now, having been built on the haunches of masculinity, Fatherland fits best.

Still, I’ve got Russia on the brain, and its rural folk, and the word “Motherland”, and some thoughts about the US, so I’m going to try to poem about that.

Here:

Motherland

Oh devourous mother, how you will devour us, in the end.

I. Mother

Oh, I feel like I have the strings of meat between my teeth.

I begged for nourishment, but all I was given

were the blood words.

Weapon. Race. Militant. Oligarch. Exercises. Separate. Nation. Maximum. Poverty. Drones.

II. Land

I feel the meat,

grimy between my teeth, of packed flesh. Once I asked for water,

and was given hot blood.

Gather. Map. Colony. Improve. Fence. Wall. Partition. Sentence.

II. I floss with this sinew,

through these words of blood. I pull it from between my incisors.

Solider. Child. Street. Improvised. Explosive. Device. Surveil. Recon.

III. I taste the iron in my mouth, spitting.

Look, now, look. Chart. Art. Image. Lit. Film. Complicit. I wear my disguise. Fashion. Television. See?

IV. From between my teeth,

I pull the last vein, and gather the bloody pulp into my palm.

Complications. Thumb. Voice.Corset. Hatpin. Stocking. Bra. Moon. Veil. Pen. Mutilation. Sex. Bow. Veil. Secrets. Suckle. Placenta.

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What do you think about the motherland, poem friends? Happy Thursday 🙂

 

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