Pot-bellied, am I: misshapen by age and gravity – more rot than plump ripe pear – still, a vessel for love – grandmotherly vase.
Men prefer a reserved lady, Mother was quick to admonish, ashamed of my hot temper, the tear in mud-soaked stockings the call that came from
My memory of you – distorted by childish exuberance – distant and disinterested Translated vacant eyes through the lens of my needs child that I
I know what infinity means: it’s one hundred plus one. Voice of innocence serene her sense of self of life’s complexities. Should borrow from her,
I am communicator, initiator, anticipate a friendly invitation from the unknown But the subconscious alights on the familial – gathers sanctimonious, moneyless, old, empty terrors
Dreams big this budding leader, astral charts painted on her walls, thoughts always adventuring. Eight summers we’ve camped together grown our minds and spirit –