Mother’s Day

cement heart of disappointment
you traveled but not far enough

graceful hands and tapered nails
handwriting worthy of a calligrapher

barking your knuckles peeling spuds
standing in boots and a man’s coat

you stink of his sweat raise his children
charge him endless packs of cigarettes

cups of coffee waiting to be woken up
when he comes home from work

pre-dawn smelling of railroad grease
jowls rough like a bristle brush

pressing the chill of his fat belly
and lean shanks against your warm backside

that’s all: no fuss, no fanfare nothing like
the romance novels that chase down

the nicotine and caffeine always at your core
a lumberjack’s daughter from nowhere

British Columbia you gave yourself away
to a man whose idea of a good time

was tuning up the old pickup truck
eating, then falling asleep in front of the tv

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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Balveen Cheema

Glen, you have the knack of beautifully presenting the harsher side of life on days marked for joy, adulation and celebration.


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