by Michael Homolka

You can always see
my mother around here shouting at
trains of abandoned lovers
Go haul your buns back underground
then weeping in heaps
of trampled flowers Suckled on
wolf’s blood the last few
verses of Revelation elaborate
moons swirling around her
too many times to count
she remains eternally
numb to the blossoms of spring
Look at her scratching
warrior-like masculine
at her club foot
out by the gates at the coast
This is the time of year
when European
kings pass by each in a
rigged up frigate decks packed
with live bouquets
and fresh young boys
for sacrifice They spot
her on high like a statue
eyeless ancient impervious now
to the deadliest gales
marvel for a while then whisper
up close She has a hot ass