CoffeeShop Blues
The Home
Young ladies, lass, fresh and clean
ripe in pluck of ‘morrow’s fruit
grabbed, in bite
sweat, swig of ale
and rubbed
‘tween teeth and lips
these spring-time maids, fallen
women
sperm and spawn
Each month they grew more
disgraced
six labored layers, stones
waiting down to drop
Their milk soured
in rage and spilt
missing, forgotten months and mouths
shrank, to pitch in dark and dank
femur, hip, pelvis, toe
fetal and fecal
entombed
in unnamed remembrance
The earth refused
to swallow
holding histories hand gloved
The wanted swing and sway, now above
pressing down
in the lightness of laughter
“There’s no place like home.”
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