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The Mother Ship
by Rick Mullin
These stars that matter to the older brother
that I never had and to the older
sister who would not eclipse my mother
pool their energy as nights grow colder.
And these streets that end in parking lots
or wind on tracks beneath the crystal towers
tie their halide shadows into knots.
I have been navigating these for hours.
All is lost. Or somewhat nonexistent.
And it doesn’t matter if I cry
to every Mother that I meet. Persistent
pain is like a window in the sky,
and I, the fallen child, the pioneer
deployed beneath this cut glass chandelier.
Rick Mullin is a journalist and painter whose poetry has appeared in several print and online journals including Measure, Unsplendid, Epiphany, Crannóg and Shit Creek Review. His chapbook, Aquinas Flinched, is available from Exot Books . His booklength poem, Huncke, was published this year by Seven Towers, Dublin. He lives in northern New Jersey.
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