After Burying My Mother

For MJZ 1939-2009


Wind-turbines’ three arms whirling, slicing like
they’ll walk the earth before they scrape it clean:

we’re driving near Des Moines, see three, then ten,
eleven: sci-fi eerie as
The Day

the Earth Stood Still
. My wife and sister sit
in back, there’s Elvis on the radio;

and mirrored rows of corn and beans, green fields
that roll like moon-chained Gloucester surf that yields

to nothing human. Boston’s years ago.
The rest-home interregnum banished it,

with vodka and MS’s aid: the way
that choice and chance efface the who/what/when/

where/why, the way the crooner’s voice, so keen,
fades fast unless he’s standing at the mic.




About the Author:
Thomas Zimmerman teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits two literary magazines at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, MI. Poems of his have appeared recently in Antiphon, The Petrichor Review, and The Flea.