mother

She gave birth to the horizon

pulling at the line between 

her thighs, yanking for miles

upon the sea and the not sea.

Each night she watches

the sun blow himself out
on the cusp of the world,

waiting in vain for one shut

lipped horizon to open 

in thanks, or in need. 

Part of what I am trying to imagine in this poem is that in giving birth a mother not only gives birth to a baby, but gives birth (from the baby’s point of view) to the world; I’ve merely taken out the intermediary step of the actual fleshy babe.  The mother then becomes the larger symbol of the universal mother, or even the Creator, who repeatedly  must watch the creature use the gift of creation to seek self-annihilation.  In this orientation, the creature cannot fathom prayer in the form of gratitude or supplication.  

I know it’s all sorts of tacky to interpret your own mediocre poem.  I am sitting here trying to come up with a reasonable excuse, but I have none.