The Human Genre Project


How like your wife
my mother looked,
like your wife
felt your love
chill to the bone.

How like your wife
Mother felt
your slam to the face,
your wife not there
to take those whacks.

How early in life
your wife dead,
rheumatic fever
you said, though
rumored your doing.

Oh, that your wife
would have lived
to know her daughter
married a gentle man,
a decent man.

How I wish that
grandmother of mine,
had been there
to mother more
so I could have.

Ruth Sabath Rosenthal