David Tomasovitch
BIRTHER MOVEMENT
My mother obsessed over the Bonus Army,
Ellis Island anarchists, Edwardian abdicators,
travelers and masons, migrants and Okies—
pushpins and yarn strung
until a pattern formed of a lazy God’s eye,
leaving me confused by lineage.
My grandmother’s third marriage was
to a man they called Prince Albert
because he was always in the can—
a real bathroom reader, she marveled.
A scholar of shit, I always thought.
Then there is my father dressed like a show girl.
He claims to have died giving birth to my sister,
who does not exist. Looking at the albatross
preening in front of the mirror, however
I begin to wonder. My mother denies
I ever existed. She was a bed of roses
fertilized by a worm professing Olympian blood.
I come from Wyandotte, Michigan, just south of Detroit. I have been writing poetry for many years. When I am not writing, I make music: search Troubadour vs the Sea Witch. Now I am told I am dying. But I am not dead yet. So I will continue to write.