Annie
She'd had enough, this afternoon
survival cracked her in the middle
bent she shuffled off
back-stage from market, hidden in the dust
as if a ghost already
troubles in a sack.
Yet this morning she was
braids and awkward angles, with a hat
that didn't fit, eyes wide
as the seeking moon.
Where does your heart sit
in this restless living
It celebrates, she would tell us
as she carves out niches in a valley
of belief, and the earth
of belief, and the earth
bursts about her
gorged upon her marrow.
Peas grow fat as thumbs.
She works all but the sky
between her fingers
Tonight she glows
She cannot cry but tears
have worn her smooth.
No comments:
Post a Comment