TheFeatheredSleep – Between survival and the tender heart
I a child
asked her, an adult
what does it take? To be merciful?
How much effort? Will it hurt much? Why
doesn’t the whole world
try?
And she, an adult
fiddling with her rings, two on each finger,
because she had run out of places
to exhibit her finery, her sophistication,
she, thought of where she would go
when she left our run-down, poky house
and did not return for supper
and what she would do
when she wasn’t weighed down
with runny nosed children and yellowed aprons.
She, who has the mind of three bright men
and a heart that did not really hold space
for people who could not spell, or those who were
slow, ones who did not impress, their light not bright
but stuck in amber, she said naught,
for she liked fine things
over much
and that did not include
wellington boots and children’s…
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