Mother

By Toti O’Brien

How the spires of your mind
those pointy needles and thorns 
vanished beyond clouds or else 
crashed silently to the ground
flattened like cards and what 
remained, only, was a flake 
spreading like a flood, green 
like moss, green like mucus.

Alligator green with its rotten 
carnivore breath, green of upturned 
boats abandoned among algae
verdigris biting kitchen pots 
among crumbled shreds of long
deceased lettuce, boiled spinaches
shelled peas, diced artichokes 
passed away on a Sunday
as you stood near the sink, and my 
chubby fingers released over 
the counter a bunch of odorous mint
basil, parsley from the garden. 

In the field, in the morning sun
we had gathered collards, chicory 
and purslane, squatting low, your 
beringed fingers sorting leaf from leaf
stem from stem, in the stillness 
before the noon bells, in a truce 
squeezed among destiny’s bookends. 

Toti O’Brien is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. Born in Rome, living in Los Angeles, she is an artist, musician and dancer. She is the author of Other Maidens (BlazeVOX, 2020), and An Alphabet of Birds (Moonrise Press, 2020).