Entitlement
My mother’s feet
I remember my mother’s feet
eye level
the blood and spike
Sisters arms stretched
hands nailed through
And that abdomen gushing
definitely my brother
The head now dead
hung forward was father
The whip marks
the back and those thorns
weeping, blinding
All mine
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I hear your voice in these – I see hands around coffee mugs and stretches of silence and stretches of laughter. And then the sheetrock.
By: Stirling on December 31, 2009
at 2:54 am