Draft, 7/17/17

Your Mother, Hiding Behind Her Hand shining like a fawn at the subway stop your palm right here/on my neck inside you white irises in a plastic vase talk softly the numbers shift/flow like the poison burning cursive on my calves lucky charms and milk spill from the gold of your teeth

So the 30/30 challenge is over, but I might be posting drafts of poems here, and then taking them down when I want to submit them for publication. So I have a lot of visitors from Russia, China and the Netherlands! Please introduce yourself in the comments and tell me how you got to this blog. Can you read English? Is it totally random? Let me know. Here's a new collage to entertain you.

New Poems

Hey friends, If you're interested in my poetry, head on over Tupelo's 30/30, where I'll be putting up 1 new poem a day for the whole month of June. In short, stuffed animals, matricide, disturbed graves. Strangers are actually donating! but you don't have to give a large amount. A buck or two is good. Or just comment on the poems! https://www.tupelopress.org/the-3030-project-2/ And if you like my piece (or cats) consider donating here: https://tupelopress.networkforgood.com/projects/30717-christine-hamm-s-fundraiser Any amount helps!

How a Mermaid Becomes a Daughter

The weeds break under your weight – the ants race across the moss on this river bank, saving what they can. Look at your filthy naked feet, how your middle toe breaks the grass root stem. The feral tabby is walking away from you, his asshole a pink period. Your toenails are ragged, shiny and rough, like drops of milky spittle. The mourning doves clutching the maple branches above us, puff-breasted, both rosy and grey, moan silently. They watch to see what you'll do. In the breeze, the dark throats of the purple sweet peas turn towards you, turn away. The water before us is cool and fast, whistling softly.

A mother is a crack in the world. I touch your matted hair: It's not my fault I love him better. Miles above us, clouds like pulled strands of cotton candy. Like white spiders tackling tiny dogs and cats. We can see nothing from here, no houses, no horizons. Here, the stinking egg shell of the sky crumbles away. The water is full of bright and glinting pebbles. Smooth and cold for your mouth. The chickadees slap and chirp at the margins, flick damp wings at you, try to meet your yellow eyes. See the horse at the bottom of the river, how he gallops along with the stream. He is waiting for you to braid dandelions into his black mane, for you to straddle his brittle back.