jameson hughes

poem about voices, my mother, Europe, and sex
jameson hughes

every voice I hear
is impertinent and I recall
how close I was
to my mother
(not close at all
really
but enough to know
she only ever once spoke to God)
and how dull faces
in the news look
broomsticks in suits
fathers all
crying
for their children
all dull and dead
even with a limp
of heavy water
in the arms of an Arab wife.
she drags herself
from place to place
on days that I would say
are perfect for walking one’s dog
or drinking wine
in Europe.
but even then voices
have a way of
creeping in
from the rain
with armor and legs
from ten years at sea
all sexless and
all without
sex.