Weekly poem on Trump Presidency
Mother of All
Why would a man name a bomb, Mother?
Mother of all Bombs? The shadow of the name
casts a mile of fire. The fallen have
no time to say, mother, mom, mama.
We all came from a woman, from her belly
that swelled for us. Stretched and sickened her
with love or anger—or both. We all have
disappointed her once, more than once,
and the river bed unfurls forward and backward,
dry. Why, mother of all, have we banished the idea
of you from the soil, from the wind that gusts
a silent scream into our ears? We give children
bunny ears to wear and plastic eggs filled with gold
to find while you bring the leaves back,
the lambs back to the earth. I see them pushing
their noses to their mother’s hind legs in the fields
from the highway through the mountains.
And so I think death must seem to promise more
than life. Why else have we replaced you? Why,
mother, why can’t we see the blast as a circle?
Tyler Mills is the author of Tongue Lyre (Southern Illinois University Press, 2013). Her work has appeared in the New Yorker, Poetry, AGNI, and the Kenyon Review. She is editor-in-chief of The Account, teaches at New Mexico Highlands University, and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.