after C.D. Wright
The mother concept, womb of wombs, must engender persistent shaking, if not a firm slap. Must create that which creates a chain. Must protect from predetermined, prearranged falls. Must stay impossible and positive. Indefinitely and evermore. And so, mother, moder, moeder, mothered, mothering, mother—‘a thick substance concreting in liquors; the lees or scum concreted,’ from modder, or filth, dregs. In the hell of herself, in her own hot soup. In the hawk of her talon, tagged. One must hail mother if only to hate her tail. Mother, made of mud, made of spit and no thank you. Making miniature watches synchronized to stop.
Rachel Mindell is the author of two chapbooks: Like a Teardrop and a Bullet (Dancing Girl Press) and rib and instep: honey (forthcoming from above/ground). Individual poems have appeared (or will) in Pool, DIAGRAM, Bombay Gin, BOAAT, Interim, Forklift, Ohio, The Journal and elsewhere. She works for Submittable. More online at rachelmindell.com.