Winter 2004

William Edward Moor


William Edward Moor William Moor graduated with a B.A. in English from Arizona State University and is currently pursuing his MFA in Poetry at Mills College.


Park Forest Avenue, in an alley
My mother sings, she sits,

Drunk. Some song from Oklahoma
Slows down garbage cans

Rolling past her.
She has a small vanity

In her purse,
And keeps papers

In the drawers,
They say: Put this number

In a safe place.
Others end

With the picture of a girl
Walking through rain,

But all you can see
Is an umbrella.

There are a few
Like that, umbrellas.

I tied an egg timer
To her head once, just

To keep her away
From the bad people,

They try to steal things.
She would just think,

And fold down
The corners of her ears.

My mother is fifty-six
And I try to stop by

Sometimes at dinner.
She can always share a potato,

Some canned beets.
We sit together.

I hold her hand
And we laugh about times in school

When I was in trouble,
And we know it's silly, but

Sometimes we pretend
We are really important stills;

The last tall oil, or just water.
Our serial number 655892-

When we play real she

I sit back I / sit back
And threes     turtle hold myself,

Yet, bottom drawer,
I am birds

So no one will steal it.
. . .Chinese ear swans.




William Edward Moor: Poetry
Copyright © 2004 The Cortland Review Issue 25The Cortland Review