In the end every boy holding a hula hoop will become
the lord of a plateau in Montana. I should behave
like it's the end. I've been watching Attack of the Earth
Mothers every day this whole week. I love
the final scene
where the earth mothers are trying to load the wounded
into their tree limb boat and move out of range. But nothing
is out of range. And so much sage burning
in the air I can almost smell it. When Rose looks at Margaret
and says, Do you think they took us seriously?
Turns out the Earth Mothers live together in a small New Orleans house
keeping miniature deer and an aquatic bison. Only covered by their nappy locks
and healing crystals, they slip out at night, patrolling the districts and collect the bras
from all single mothers. They float them in the larger pool
in their bathhouse. They celebrate on karaoke binge, passing songbooks
and holding voodoo. Dear god, let hands grow from this brass section. Teach us to shake
them. Dear god, send me a glimpse of your ballad for hangnails. Forgive this day's
humdrum. Dearest mammalia, thank you for the dugong and it's pace. Help us to
become more ho-hum.
When Meredith stands near a loom in her overalls she thinks
about swans. She thinks about cocoons. All the water she's cupped in her hands.
Sounds stuck inside soundless objects.
Tell me about Capricorn & I'll tell you if your feather goes askew.
Meredith puts on her Fleetwood Mac album when she wants to think about the
life sciences.
She knows the smell of skunks & that this planet is just like that one. She
rearranges tealeaves & shapes a gull.
We stand too close to the storm. People say, Outside the wind is howling,
& we are trying to talk over it.
I watch Meredith throw a deer into the ocean while wearing her red tennis shoes.
She's filming an 80s horror flick where all the monsters are cuter than the ones
before.
She's focusing on unrequited love. Blouse. Couch. Yarn barn. Black feathers.
Fur.
When we get there I'm only wearing Meredith's red tennis shoes.
She tosses pumpkins to me across a fire & as the gourds cook they stick to our
hands & our hands are sticky.
She dances around the fire like she is escaping from witch-mountain.
I put on Meredith's Fleetwood Mac t-shirt & watch her go swimming. She goes
so far off I can't see her from the shoreline.
Philip Muller grew up in Florida. He is on hiatus from his MFA in redsockscity, usa. His poems also appear in H_NGM_N.