In elementary school, my mother rides the red bus to “defense class.”
Station one she crosses a brook with knotted rope.
Station two she bandages someone’s leg. Station three
she affixes her gas mask and crawls the path to station four,
where she eats goulash with friends. They walk home singing
The golden gate is open, opened with a golden key.
Grown, when defenseless against “dust in the blood,” stuck
at the base of the stairs with a weighted head, she brings herself
outdoors. Station one she climbs a step. Station two
she climbs a step. In my living room hangs a painting
that reads, “The rope at the end of the rope.”
In my mother’s living room is a window
where I watch her feed the grackles from her hand.