For all the Annie's and Arthur's

a worker

strides across the room

the backs of sculptures

"lime-wood" she tells me

bronze afterglow a dirty gold

chiselled dents

that look like fish scales

she is skin

and trees and love

what the mother

means to us

each "I" an abstracted

perspective like the Lichtenstein

that made you smile

what the mother

means to us

arms wrapped around a baby

looking at old ladies wishing

we were old ladies

content and curious

content and curious as she

pulls

her fender apart until the strings

curl into magnetic fields

magnificent

like Descartes

duality of light

in a dark sweaty room saying

"sorry" to the stage

and the cables on the floor

that thick ripped sky

split and bled

by bombs that turned

Rimbaud's words

into dust so he could

dance

in the margins of this room as she smiles

spits waves screams sings begs our

broken throats to bellow

unravelling in cascades

of "be free" "be free"  "be free"