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“To My Mother” by George Barker

By Luke Stromberg • May 13, 2016 • E-Verse Universe

Most near, most dear, most loved, and most far,
Under the huge window where I often found her
Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter,
Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand,
Irresistible as Rabelais but most tender for
The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,—
She is a procession no one can follow after
But be like a little dog following a brass band.

She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend
To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar,
But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain
Whom only faith can move, and so I send
O all her faith and all my love to tell her
That she will move from mourning into morning.

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    About the Author

    Luke Stromberg

    Luke Stromberg is the Associate Poetry Editor of E-Verse. His work has appeared in The Philadelphia Inquirer, The New Criterion, The Hopkins Review, Think Journal, and several other venues.

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