The Mother Poem by Chris Emery

i am Shulamith strung out on this march
with my boys in tow my ankles scabby i suppose
i love my womb its fragrant pith a guerdon
i make use of in featureless care & the institute
romping among actuaries & surgeons so
get me across the river for i need a hit
& understand i am more than willing
to set my boys on you though i have my doubts
my doubts with burning toes & boredom here to boot
i shall wear a mozzetta & corduroys & have my fleas
& in this hefty frame enfold some holy blokes
in all honesty the commisars i bought in a moment
of weakness chewing on rye bread just
blabbing in coffins like puritans my darlings
pale in drag & whingeing for truth & equanimity
i will oblige each with a teat in Eden & become their
headscarved double hereabouts mistress of bauxite
and barley rendering distractions on each soul
the spigot of love traipsing about for some
countermanding zealot with a cart of meat
& Distalgesics my sons up top all mischievous
the clock tower bombed again above the pigpen
& Councillors in paisley shirts spruced up
what a palaver these blokes make gesticulating
wildly when rinsing down the compound i see you
make a few quid from simnel cake and borscht
& then i'm on my way again itching & turning
across borders fetching Kalashnikovs & sour bread
for other well-hung sons i've thanked mmm mmm
for setting mutton under blankets for my hymns
& set beside the pavement and limewashed walls
reticulating canes stacked up like rickets below
the Ministry of Absolute Redemption a recombinant
nation beside the lampshades and soaps of the Party
Collective pure gravy under the beaks of mountains
the chipped statues of bald farts staring & staring
towards the lathered Proletariat & idling tractors
& furrows quavering to all but this seamstress
i am delivering the lord's washed out & inculcated soil
fuelling imperfect tenses in the refurbishment of race
picking over crockery & a punnet of dollars
my legerdemain swish swish upon bright perspex
cracking cement in the purges as i collect my debts
my songs impinging on crepe banners while i point
& grin the fat lieutenant dropping loose change
in my hat indecent as a theorem as i wince impeccably
below the squirting panoply of men all verges & dogs
pert above the spittle on my lips i wipe a hanky
on the puce moon of my beautiful surviving head
above loss after loss on pillows my eructations
all smog in a city fingering tarmac for shell cases
as the trucks begin loading potash & flour sacks
the other women dissolving scurrying for haircuts
shorter than before amid the dupes & bruises
of pale concordance wishing for trains
& pronouns in the prime of what life