Academic journal article The Journal of Psychohistory

My Mother as Normandy

Academic journal article The Journal of Psychohistory

My Mother as Normandy

Article excerpt

(Thanks to fames Allen Hall)

My mother was the plateau and

steep cliffs that fell to the sea.

Wild flowers grew from her head,

blown by the breeze,

flattened by marine storms.

Plentiful bees sucked nectar from her breasts,

flew to neighboring fields,

pollinated other blooms.

Sometimes hybrids birthed from these unions,

became permanent beauty marks.

Farmers and their wives,

who before had made corn rows of her hair

by day and by night nestled in the safety

of her arms,

suddenly, on moonless nights,

ran across her back, smuggling human cargo.

On June 6,1944 my mother

sang to the allied forces.

Boys jumped from landing barges.

Waist-high in water, hands overhead,

they gripped their rifles.

Though everything in them screamed,

"Turn back!" they slogged forward.

My mother's rump became slippery with blood.

Heavy boots scrambled up her belly,

tore her skin, exposed muscle and bone.

Her haunches were death traps

for thousands who charged into German fire.

A sandy-haired boy somersaulted

backwards down her outstretched leg,

a bomb blast ending his climb. …

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