Lisa Furmanski

All sons sleep next to mothers, then alone, then with others Eventually, all our sons bare molars, incisors Meanwhile, mothers are wingless things in a room of stairs A gymnasium of bars and ropes, small arms hauling self over self Mothers hum nonsense, driving here and there (Here! There!) in hollow steeds, mothers reflecting how faint reflections shiver over the road All the deafening musts along the way Mothers favor the moon—hook-hung and mirroring the sun— there, in a berry bramble, calm as a stone This is enough to wrench our hand out of his and simply devour him, though he exceeds even the tallest grass Every mother recalls a lullaby, and the elegy blowing through it