She
loves it when it’s angry.
Settles
into its big lap like other people take a nap.
Lets
it rage so nobody
will
notice she can’t turn the pages in her life.
The
red hot virulence
of
maddened strife and strangled tears
is mother’s milk to her.
And is to me, when
I am she, which I can be.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment