Thursday, April 29, 2021

napowrimo day no. 25


The women in the garden hide knives in their smiles, stones in their pockets.

                    After lunch, rip each other limb from limb, sugar in the sockets,

                                     but poison in their mouth.  This one, a wayward husband, 

the mute daughter and wandering dog. Another, the barren womb.  

                        The tether that won't hold. Soap in her insides nightly, 

                                    rubbed til she's red.  The bed he placed inside her, where nothing

quickens, nothing licks the loins like the boy in her youth, Fists full of wildflowers. 

                    All the spirits gathering nightly, but nothing in the belly but feathers 

                                          and dirt. What hurt in his stare where the blood blooms

cleanly between her legs. What hope, the way she sings softly, knitting 

            the smallest things for the tiniest children that slip out of her 

                    in the night. The red sheets on every line

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