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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.
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I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.
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