Three Poems : Renee Alberts
cloth mother/wire mother
I.
Mother,
I'm reminded of you today
when the weather turns
on us to still chlorophyll in
nodding daffodils' veins
while cherry tree petals
ferment in puddles,
flat as sloughed skin cells.II.
My mother can gouge the heart out
of a cabbage with one deft push
of her thumbs after she bashes
its core against the counter
in a blow that rattles the blind three-tined
forks asleep in their dark drawers.When her contractions time
2o 19 15 minutes apart,
she drives herself to the hospital
in the turning lane, sounding
her horn: furious trumpeter
stupefying gridlocked commuters.III.
We are meat
coats
homes.