click on mother dwarf's spirit catcher to go back

from Lab Rats, The Quantum Colapse of Mother Dwarf

Dead Cat, Dead Pap, Dead Dwarf, Dismissed Sis, Dead Baby . . . And I

As Mother Dwarf Lay Dead and Dying

Good Rat Mom Prey Has No Name

by Steven B. Smith

Speaking of poetry in slow motion - 1995, Mother Dwarf was slowly creeping up the stairs (way before her 2000 crushed knee) due to old age over weight arthritis, so I rushed to the top of the stairs, and in a low slow menacing voice said 'p - r - e - y.'

'No, no.   No prey.   I'm your Mother.'

Sad to say I had to say 'Prey . . . has . . . no . . . name.'

Almost damaged her - she started laughing, had to hold the banister to keep from falling.

Prey Has No Name became the title to a lost poem she since saved.

But first . . .

Dead mom returned laugh, so laugh last laugh I.

During my previous periods of employment, I'd give mom $50 each paycheck - for lab fees, since she was my lab rat.  Told her I was going to stick pins in her to see if it caused my voodoo doll any pain.

My first paycheck current employment, I gave her $100 - with a note saying

You Good Rat.
Good Rat
get raise!

Hours after she died, wandering her space for company, I picked up her money jar - a 1985 S. Judson Wilcox ceramic paper bag containing 80 paper dollars, one Sacajuwea metal dollar, and - at the bottom of the bag - my Good Rat note.

Started laughing.  And crying.  And laughing.  (Money does that to me.)

Not bad when the dead make you laugh so soon after dying.  And, the dead work cheap. Except in memories. There they cost.

Kept telling mom all these years I didn't know who she was, or how she got in, but she could stay because I needed someone slow around for when the monsters attacked.

She said, "But there are no monsters."

"There will be."   And I was right.  And she was so slow, Death got her instead of me.

Na nana na na.

I as child fathered Mother Dwarf.  Gave mom Mother Dwarf name back in 1975.
Odd how long ago recent is when one is 59.

Bringing a lady to meet mom, I told her not to be upset, but needed to warn her mom was a hunchback dwarf.  Explained how the leather jacket I'd given mom for Xmas was
already ruined because everyone kept rubbing her hump for luck, which made the leather smooth and shiny.

(It's the details that matter).

As I introduced them, I watched her trying to peek at mom's back - even though at 5 foot 10 inches and 250 pounds, mom was no dwarf.

She mentioned my lie to mom, who immediately took to the name.  A 79 year old mother
when she died, she was but a 30 year Mother Dwarf.  They go so young these days.

Death is father to weight as well - after Cat AND dad died, mom ballooned to 320 pounds. Then in 18 months of dieting, she dropped to 218 before going to emergency room.

Five months into her intensive care rehabilitation bounce, she weighed 150.  68 pounds
lost in five months - that's 14 pounds a month, half a pound a day.  Lot of skin, bone,
not much flesh.  And what flesh there was, hurt.   Said she wouldn't recommend it
as a weight loss program.

Now she's 5 pounds.  So is Cat.  Got 10 pounds of close relatives sharing my space.
Tomorrow morning, they're out of here.  Take them down to water wall and dust the wind.

The saved poem?   I read Prey Has No Name at 1995 World Cup Coffee House reading with Daniel Thompson.  Didn't quite work, so i trashed it, lost it, or forgot about it for next 10 years - until found copy in dead mom stuff last week.

Still didn't work - but cut a couple of lines, change a few words, re-space it two by two a la Noah, and . . .


   Prey Has No Name

   We fish with human face
   Such depths of want

   And need
   Heart drums beat

   To pulse blood hope
   In womb warm wonder

   Lying lizard in the sun
   In spring full breadth

   Of coiled light
   Brain bridged push

   Mute witness
   For those who died

   In black and white
   Before elective gray


So I guess my inheritance is $81, one lost poem, and many magic memories.

Not a bad legacy.