Monday, February 11, 2008

someones mother

In my mind, there is an old woman
of English decent
She's prude
washes her hands too much
powders her nose
noontime tea
throws Botche
and yells at the dog
has a sophisticated cigarette
sipping a water and scotch in the evening
She is reserved and shy about falling in love
and exposing herself
She is patient and delicate
She is properly inquisitive
and simply delightful

In her soul
there is a firefly
and a butterfly
and a howling
and an awaking hibernation
and an intense nature stirring
and swimming against the current
and jaws behind cages
there is animal frustration
there is reckless abandonment
and wide eyes blinking
and nomadic starlight
there is a throbbing
there is sex
there is heat lightning
there is music

In her heart
there is bleeding and beating
and balancing between
She is yearning and giving
and wearing it on her sleeve
under lock annd key
and holding your hand
and eye contact
and struggling up stairs
and falling to pieces
and breaking and mending
and smiling at strangers
and forgiveness
and hope