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Someday They Will Both Wield Hammers

Somewhere east, a single mother
hides her daughter’s bra,
conceals the evidence of her
blooming behind a Jack pine door.

She descends the guilty stairs
in too tight heels, slips
money into a crack in the wall
with a bone-deep, leadened sigh.

Her heavy door opens in morning
shadows—another knocking man
ignoring the protesting snap of her
sacrificial kneeling body.

Her sex is like miming in the choir,
like the moon’s imposturous brilliance—
enough to direct their willful gaze
away from her maternal exhibition.

Someday they will both wield hammers,
break open the wall, head west
to the Kansas wheat fields, a plot—
flat land, with no plans for stairs.



Glenn Lyvers has won several awards, including an annual award from Indiana University, Best Poet from Midwest Lit., and a Wolfson Award (2nd place) for short fiction. He serves as the masthead at Prolific Press Inc, where he oversees Poetry Quarterly as well as a full publishing program and a chapbook series.