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Early May, the Motherless Henry is filling his plate with seconds; The hours gone, the weeks, the days. Why not? Her moment had come, her words, acts: All that’s left is re-construction. With the rain beating down on the roof We watch Derby run, sip mint juleps. His thoughts turn to another time. When Henry surfs he starts with the big numbers, Works his way down, down, down, Finishes with a flurry four, three, two – We watch channel one. Why not? Henry is filling his plate. His hat is blue like the hooves of his heart. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Latorial D. Faison On Date: 2005-06-01 03:17:15
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
This is an astounding poem about memories and the motherless. All I could think about while reading this is how grief and sadness and depressiona are linked to eathing. It's been a topic of major interest to me lately, so I find it interesting that the character in your poem eats so, and in the backdrop of the poem he's missing the presence of his mother.
You present one of life's toughest challenges. Losing a parent is devastating, but losing the mother is in particular most devastating. At any rate, she's the one who was the constant in the lives of her children. She cooked. She cleaned. She taught lessons. She assures that everything will be alright.
You write the poem in such a way that it might appear that this person is masking his feelings for his dead mother in food. It's many different things for different people. At any rate, it's a cover up that prevents us from dwelling on being motherless.
I'm not so sure it's a concious effort or not in the poem. Sometimes it just happen. Healing is time consuing. That's one of the longest waits ever, the wait for healing.
Thanks for sharing this one. You made me think on my parents, and I really need to be.
Great job.
Latorial
www.latorialfaison.com