Mother’s Day
by
Paul Hostovsky
It’s Mother’s Day and I need a mother. My mother is dead and my grandmother is dead, too. And the mother of my children is “the mother of my children,” and we don’t talk. I’m all dressed up with no mother to go. I have a card and some flowers and I’m walking around looking at the mothers in the windows, the shop windows and the restaurant windows, with their husbands and their children. And I feel motherless. And I know I look motherless too. I know in spite of my card and flowers and cowlick and new shoes, people see right through me. They see I’m an imposter. A poseur. A motherfucker who would steal your mother and help you look for her. What was she wearing? Is she young or old? Large breasts or small? Of course it’s a Sunday in May so there’s all this pollen in the air, so there’s all this sex in the air, and the motherless trees are standing erect in the breeze, shivering with pleasure. And the ejaculations of the lost and laughing mothers are pealing in the Sunday air, like a summons.
Bio:
Paul Hostovsky’s newest book is Perfect Disappearances (Kelsay 2025). He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. Website: paulhostovsky.com
This piece holds absence like a ritual and misfires beautifully. The line about stealing a mother and helping look for her hit like an echo I hadn’t placed yet.