Saturday, July 12, 2008

The Edge of Morning by Chella Courington

We pass a joint, barely long
enough for a clip. You accuse me
of hiding my sex under tight sheets.
I breathe as deep as I can. Your words
bounce against the wall, single letters back
and forth: Navratolova slams one ball after a
nother. Chrissie’s flummoxed. Too late to drive
too high to care. And you invoke my mother’s ghost
like you always do this time of night: her hand reaches
from the grave to bless us. I roll more grass, lick the edge
to forget I’ll stumble off to bed with you and blame Mother
for pushing me into your arms.

SUB-LIT, 1.4 (Spring 2008). Ed. Michael Ogletree et al.


Pris said...

Chella, I love this!!

Linera Lucas said...

I just got back from Tin House, workshop leader was Aimee Bender, very fine experience. Wish you had been there.


Maggie May said...

' blame Mother '

i have an entire forest of poems based on this premise. and yet it infuriates me already, what my children blame ME for.