The Moya View

Tag: Mother

  • I Can Never Write Like My Mother

    I Can Never Write Like My Mother

    Am I left loving what my mother couldn’t? — writing on patchouli scented paper — words doused in sweet musky earth — unsent letters, all sweet and spicyI laid the stems of letters across wet pages—but they did not take— failed to bloom—I tired of the scent— wished for the beautiful unadorned line— divorcedfrom all…

  • Mother Are You Proud of Me?

    Mother Are You Proud of Me?

    They tore your body apart.You died among walls of infusion boxes.On the television, the Pope riding by in his Pope mobile.Are you proud of mewhen I cry?Are you proud of mewhen I don’t?Peeking through the slats of the living room blinds,I discovered your body slumped in the reclining chair.Will I ever know the truth of…

  • The Evolution of Our Caress

    The Evolution of Our Caress

    from the cotyledon the leaf opens it first curveto the golden decay, the dispersing crumbling wind.from the abandoned shellstanding firm against the reclaiming wave the turtle claims its carapace.from the snail’s screamthe ear cupped itselfto hear what the tide strived to muffle. from beyond the foam the mother and child cuddle from the wind, the…

  • What to Do with All the Love that Remains

    What to Do with All the Love that Remains

    The most beautiful thing is always the thing in front of you, my mother use to say. And she was a beauty, always smiling, a beauty markfollowing in front. To see such beauty was to die a little in the heart each day- Each day to give your heart away until there is noting left.Love…

  • An Endless Telephone Call

    An Endless Telephone Call

    I knew this pulse had traveled thru spacewith a shivery speedto reach this felt sole,these five yards of ancient twisted wires that gave it sound-striking its bell three times in mournful was too early to hear the good news of friends.Yet, even not quite awake,I knew between the sounds of hello and goodbye my…

  • Black Dress

    Black Dress

    When she wears the black dress against herself and sees her every reflection in the mirror she knows it will fit her better than even her mother ever wore it.

  • Nourishment


    The buried placenta knows not the suffering of the womb,only that it once nourished.

  • Walking Along the Seashore Without My Mother

    Walking Along the Seashore Without My Mother

    The old negative of her with her hair pinned backI hold up to the horizon and see it fade into the waves.It was the one taken through the filtered window of her black car,her face half in night and half in day.Behind, I hear the echo of the sand cave.In front, the roar of swirl…

  • Ode to a Peanut Butter Elvis

    Ode to a Peanut Butter Elvis

    Elvis loved his peanut butter.   Gladys, who loved him the most, as all good mothers love their children, would feed him grilled Hawaiian bread sandwich after sandwich of peanut butter with chopped caramelized bananas, or gently mashed fork bananas, sometimes with bacon, sometimes without.   He dreamed of peanut butter and Gladys would feed…

  • My Mother’s Sounds

    My Mother’s Sounds

    I am not your dying son, I thought, as my wife gave me the diagnosis, remembering my mom in her dying chair.   I will not pass into final memories watching the Pope in America. “Bless me, Papa”, will not be my last words.   I do not believe in my mother’s God though He…