“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label femme. Show all posts
Showing posts with label femme. Show all posts
Saturday, May 6, 2017
Her yin
The woman saves babies.
I have seen her catch one
in midair with one hand
as it was falling out of
a walmart cart.
The woman I have seen
juggles jobs, hats, dishes,
bills and priorities,
shifting her wide hip weight
when necessary.
The woman stands in front
of her own children, taking bullets
and returning aim, she puts her arm out
when they are driving
still
and says it is reflexive.
The woman always worries,
I have seen her furrowed brow
she has origami secrets folded
up in there,
she uses up more than she has with nothing
left
of self
The woman knows her cliches and expectations,
she recites them easily if you ask,
and somehow
day to day words assemble easily for her,
she may manipulate these into weaponry,
unless she sees
some innocence,
she proposes poisons leaving bodies
awake.
Painting by Bronzino (1540) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...