Literary Salt  
 poetry | Judith Skillman | issue 2
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The Mum

Rarefied center shines
under scrap-metal stars.
A gift of fall,
token of remembrance
and, therefore, like the aster,

it spindles
thin and broken, too tall.
Lushness comes apart
like a dream
and then there's just

a clear pane of glass
left in the garden by mistake.
The face that gleams
when polished is the symbol
left when the flower

entered another autumn.
It wagered
too many petals,
it was already lost
with the horses' stakes.

The mum says,
However I lost my voice
Is no longer mysterious.
My muteness can be yours
and my beautiful deaf heart.



Judith Skillman

Fall Poplars - Provence
Fall Poplars - Provence
Bruce Brezel
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