Poetry || Submissions

By Philip Hyams

Initiated by a strange thought,
An outburst of anger provoked;
That wheelchair standing so unattended
In a coppice quite remote;
Brought The Brood back together.

Those disenchanted three having drifted
Apart over the innovative years;
Imagining it was some black joke,
Laughed kismet aloud to themselves.

Yet it had been arranged before.
It was no random jest.
Would those horribly homologous hellcats
See the purpose in that test?

For the invalid once confined to
That leather-backed contraption,
Wasted great stores of her energy
Rolling in Circle's thriftless action.

That stump was their mother!
How had she managed to raise
Such rampageous rattling rascals?
There had never been another.

Now postured with light behind,
And staring down at remembrance;
That trio of clucking witches would
Retrace their steps unto another time:
When they as anyone like anyone
Could have been hungry, wet or crying;
And then that litter epitomized
The eternal triangle's need for
A healing, bold, declarative loving sign.