mother of wild | dangerous woman
how can broken people heal a shattered world?
maybe we can’t.
maybe we’re not
supposed to.
what if we just wait for the flood?
it cannot be much longer until God regrets, undoes
what we’ve said They’ve done
our veins pulse with shame, for shame
we are the drought
f o r s h a m e.
for how long have I
confused considerate with
convenient for you
I must stop making myself
more palatable for those who would not
consume me either way
lukewarm is safe but wholehearted is
the only way I can breathe; if it boils me alive then so be it
burn burn it away
burn me
plans flake
like ashes from my skin, cremation
for supposed to be
i am new
Warmth in the sun and cool in the shade. Bonfire smoke in your face. Kids running and giggling and plucking beautiful weeds by the fistful for their mothers. Grandfathers and great grandfathers and the clink of horseshoes in the lawn; gruff and gentle. Chocolate cake smeared on baby-turned-toddler faces because first birthdays deserve to be celebrated at least twice. Celebrated with bright new dresses and stacks of wooden puzzles. Sugar crash nap in daddy’s arms. A newly planted redbud tree, a sapling meant to grow alongside you. Jonquil and clover.
