A poem being passed out freely at several bookstores in SF: Lightweight One day, I will have to put her down and take up someone else -- my mother, formidable and happy from assorted potencies, her liver a colander. Despite her lack of stature she will crush your fleshy hand, pleased to meet you. Any thinner, and we could bury her in a saxophone case, lay her out in a long map drawer, fold her into a bird cage, safety deposit or cigar box, a hollowed-out book, pill case -- here she is: my mom. I carry her around; she comes along. WELLSPRING "After the eighth child, you just can't get your figure back" she said, now up to 12 births and full-bellied, though not from food. So unfull, in fact, that when the family dog knocked over the butter churn, ruining the contents on the dirt floor, she took him by the collar and hung him in the live oak where he howled and died. No one spoke of it then, or until she was senile and arthritic, since the yellow dog was replaced with many other mutts, spoiled and hand-fed, sleeping with the children. Swift justice, the noose and dog cut down, but an end of rope still circling a tree in Nebraska, by way of Minnesota, the Netherlands, some old world of hunger and industry.

i liked these... thanks for sharing them, terry...

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