There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
while she married over and over, taking you
How could it work,
when all those years she stored her widowed heart
as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are,
afraid of blood, your women
like one brick wall after another.
| Best Poems | Short Poems
Email Poem |
Top Richard Brautigan Poems
Analysis and Comments on Love Poem
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Love Poem here.