fecundity

Prolific- 
This fecundity- 
simple 
like thought
in our servile stream
Yeah, if life is a metaphor
this must be a pretty heavy book
And I’ve been sittin down
Rocking my chair
Long time out, no time in
Feet touch and retreat
Touch and retreat

Mama isn’t saying right 
or wrong
Papa only sang me songs 
at bedtime -early on-
you make me happy when skies are gray
Now we don’t speak
Mostly
Out of habit

Down the road of fourteen
Narrow line of marked ire 
said I hated him
I never really knew him
He only hurled insults
At the tree I come from
Screamed, outraged-
mother spurned him 
my flesh, rooted, 
closest to hers

What tales 
these womb survivors 
tell
stranded in the middle of the day
startled into story
but never
into song.

Completed 6/21/2002

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