Dear Mother,
I know it must be hard to understand
Where you are in relation to where you
Stand since your understanding undermines
Everything everywhere and all the time.
I know it’s “unfair” that the Samson you
Wanted, the same son, was forgotten and
Left behind at the bank where the water
Children sit so silent stagnant still and
The mothers swim and drink without waiting
A good bent hour before eating. But,
Is not the rambling, running, dancing
Flowing, singing, tripping, superfluous
River, where the congregation is born
Time and time again, then, as always, drowned
In the maw and paw of familiar
Familial distress, and disastrous
Loving waters–those siren sounding sounds:
The falling great stones, and frail bricks of
A heart that you’d ne’er build nor take apart
Not the most loved above all the rest?
Isn’t it the spirit, not the structure,
Where we find the lord’s faulty, cheap, design?
Can we not amend such vast decisions?
Can we not stop the working workmen’s work?
Halt the lord’s crane? His goosed neck, bent broke stretched,
Over and above the flowing rotting
Sewage? Lord, too much water, too much wine.
But I’ve digressed, or, perhaps, digested
Too much from my discontented plate and
Now, my distended belly will give up
Disagreeing with me on this feast day.
So mother, I’m done. I’ve spoken my peace
In this puzzling puzzle that just won’t
fit. So with adieu, I now give to you
Goodnight, goodbye, good luck–but only two.
Love,
Man Lee