Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood

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A mother picks up the phone.
"Come get me," says her son,
his voice choked with captivity.
The mother is pulled through
the phone line into another life
of handcuffs and highbeams.
The line is ticking, like
life parsed out in small
increments, small permissions.
Wordless days elapse,
each one a rack, wrenching
her limbs out of place.
She walks with a slight limp
into the courtroom on the day
her son is scheduled to appear.
Her eyes take in too much light.
The gleaming wood is sinister.
Small consultations occur between
lawyers and the lost
in a fishbowl of urgent
whispering. The judge
is harkened. He sits up high
near the ceiling tiles. Her son
is third in a chainlink of other
offenders. A cataract of orange
assaults her, and she sees:
the curled tongue inside the jaw
that's trying to be a man,
the green fear in his eyes.

Tori Grant Welhouse lives in the woods of Wisconsin, overlooking a small, still pond. She is the mother of a 22-year-old son and an 11-year-old daughter. She also has a 24-year-old stepson. She earned an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University, studying in London with poet Ken Smith. She works for a local television station and attends soccer games. Her poetry has appeared in Children Churches & Daddies and was chosen for an anthology, Chaos Theory.

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I can feel the tension in this one. The anxiety responsibility sometimes carries. I understand that intuitive feeling that can suck you into another world, without a second thought. Someone calls and you go. No time to think. This also occurs in the reverse, parent calling child. Beautifully written.
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