Skip to content

Motherhood

July 11, 2007

Motherhood

Laced tributaries formed
a watershed of dark
hair, hung like thread
at the base of a loom,
down
my back.

Your short, papery fingers
pushed the blonde from your face
with nails like clean plates, encircled
by skin pulled back like fins
on the belly of a fish.

The foggy bathroom smelled of lemon.
The juice ran slick
and clouded with distended,
lucent, yellow fibers
squeezed
from a plastic bottle
you kept in the fridge.

Wavy, wet hair basted.
Sent into the yard
to swing between willow
and pinked mimosas,

until the sun
offered enough gold
to wreathe it.

Advertisements
No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: