I heard someone say, dont be afraid to share the things you make with your people, so, this feels weird and a little scary, but here goes . . . Mourning Her fragile keen, so felt, so slow, so rude, desists upon my entering the room. Like a death at a parade, my steps on grief intrude; like scissors on a butterfly they move. I wish she would lament as mothers do, terribly, instead of cooing to herself, instead of refusing to look around for me, losing sight of her grief instead. I crushed a junebug to guts and tatters once. Its wings and legs came unglued. Puzzlingly, itd ceased to be, And, overcome with distress, I buried her and chalked June on a rock with a rock, and cried desperately. O, weary woman, too, cry and cry and cry til your eyes turn blue.
Posted on: Mon, 08 Dec 2014 17:00:17 +0000
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