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      July 11, 2024A Family MatterBob Hicok

      Of course, when my mother asked
      that I give my wife a kiss for her, I did so,
      telling my wife, I am my mother, kissing you.
      My wife’s mother, it turns out, had asked the same,
      so of course she told me, I am my mother,
      kissing you back. When we informed our mothers later
      that they had kissed as lesbians
      through heterosexual proxy
      beside our cat’s sense that something
      like a mouse or with the potential
      to be a mouse would eventually move
      through the spot she was staring at,
      where nothing was or had ever been, as far
      as the record shows, my mother asked, was tongue
      involved? My wife and I consulted the log
      but there was no entry. We shrugged
      at our mothers and went about our lives,
      though now with an awareness
      there are gaps we’ll never fill
      that may or may not have tongues in them,
      though given a vote, I say yes, tongues, red
      like our mouths are where flames go
      to be alone.

      from #30 - Winter 2008

      Bob Hicok

      “I think of myself as a failed writer. There are periods of time when I’ll be happy with a given poem or a group of poems, but I, for the most part, detest my poems. I like writing. I love writing, and I believe in myself while I am writing; I feel limitless while I’m writing.”