Speaking of things that are obsolete…
Do your big broad shoulders hold up the sky?
I’d like to put my foot on your face
and explain to you, in great detail
all that your sperm lacks
How its after taste has a hint of wrath
Your mother trembled with premonitions
in her ninth month
knowing deep down
her scarlet prayer shawl was
I think it’s in your heart,
doesn’t know it’s deficient
So, who could blame you?
Still, she had deep prayers,
your mother in the morning garden
at the foothills of the Appalachian mountains
among the corn and the sugar snap peas
The August soil turning onto itself
her prayer shawl
Who could blame her?
© Copyright All Reserved By Cynthia Mayhew