0.00
(0 votes)
You must login to vote
|
|
|
When she speaks, her breath is heavy
with the dust and wax of women
who knelt down before an altar
of defensive procreation.
The words are less a message
than a beast of daily burden.
Brimming pails of clotted vowels
sticking to her labored tongue.
The moral and the punchline
are not served for your amusement:
they are pieces on a game board
stretching back before her birth.
Like a flute, she's just a vessel
for a set of measured holes.
------
______________________________________________
I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.
|
Breath of Stone
