Mother's Day

and if she did live forever
we would call up armless men,
up out of the ground, that grow
where hens' teeth are planted,
to run aimlessly back and forth
across the miniature rhomboid lawn
until some burrow under the fence,
some fall into the pool and drown,
gradually thinning into transparency
as the summer loses interest.
the rest, one by one, are caught
in the raspberry thorns, flapping
their forked toes and useless
little pink wings, after devouring
all the birdseed left in the feeder.
it would give her something else
to complain about.








F.J. Bergmann lives in Wisconsin. She claims to have an MFA from the School of the Americas. In a previous life, she worked with horses. At heart a blocked visual artist, she is to blame for madpoetry.org and her own site, fibitz.com, where more of her dubious achievements may be perused. Her hairstyle and demeanor are deceptive. One of her pseudopodia can reach all the way from the bedroom to the refrigerator. Her favorite authors all write speculative fiction.







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