Two Poems by Montreux Rotholtz 

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AUGUST

My mother she’d by
             summer lather had her
             her teleprompter stutter

by bleeted unbent
             hum—a brisk box
             unhooked from hazard.

Released the felt-tip
             scarab or gold dust
             cut—a shaken can

of beans. My mother’s syn
             tax; Oh. My mother’s
             fallen, freighted by

her troubles, mouth
             a burnt door, a rim.
             My mother’s cheek turned

to buzzards, meek sun,
            productive clot or
            dusted agave limit.

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HOMELAND

Always had in front of pain
aluminum blunted
a slab of fog, a shield

Whatever he shook her heart
the day the tiger was seen
turning the bathroom with both hands
he pressed his privilege on

Madison said she’d touched his arm
the leper’s arm that thrust
through the wall of falling cream

Through albumen and sea salt
the devil entered dressed in skin
while the woman in his voice
called the baby, started back

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