Poem: The Common Ancestor, Chrysanthemum Edition

I find myself reluctant to draw on references from old wells of reading, although the refs sometimes sneak in. Nothing dies and every word I've read or heard is in me. I'm the cloud, not of unknowing but of cyberspace.

But then cyberspace was created by us so the mimicry is not double-edged but rotund, a mirrored carousel. A porous scrim. The wells I'm thinking of are children's lit--universal, beloved, and, plausibly cute, as in use-with-caution. And Sunday School lit, in my case the Bible (King James, old school). Christian Science Sunday School, the loneliest place in the world. In almost every other religion, if you need help, folks assemble, casseroles are offered along with good wishes and company. In C.S. everyone goes home and reads the texts. I'll take the casserole and a hug.

Oh. Another in my few The Common Ancestor poems names Jesus. But you get the idea.

The Common Ancestor,

Chrysanthemum Edition

I was so there where we met up

after I kicked

and you opened or

I kicked you open.

Everyone kicks Mom.

If they don't, a doctor's called

and Mother converts

to keep sharp objects away.

Judy, Tina, Sarah after

my oldest sister so don't worry

on her.

Three sacred rivers are sourced

in the common memory.

Mom rode a rivulet home.

____

Sarah Sarai. A version of this poem appeared in Boog City Reader, Issue 83, 2013. 

Buck Downs is the poetry editor. David Kirschenbaum is the mastermind.