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Some Poems I wrote for the Old Lady Being Mentored by Eyers

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I hear it howl at the moon

The voice is primal, defeaning

I quake in fear at this thing

Where could it be hiding?

In a shed or a barn

Even in a cloud or inside of a car

I hear the leaves rustle, a branch

snaps. The wind is still, yet

I hear the soft rumble of an avalanche

The chase continues, where could it be?

Your mother is out there, somewhere.

Is it icecream or elmer's glue?

Could it be cake or is it a dish sponge?

Is it pine needles or pine sol?

That soft touch; asbestos or clouds?

Look before you lick.

The voice, you hear it, it tells you to lick

You brace yourself, you take a deep breath

they tell you not to worry, that you don't have to

you stick out your tongue and die on the inside

and there is your mother.

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Ryan Rix is a privacy rights advocate and net-art wannabe. Reach them on the Fediverse as @rrix@cybre.space, twitter as @rrrrrrrix, via email to ryan@whatthefuck.computer or on Facebook or on Matrix as @rrix:whatthefuck.computer.