On rooftops now
she strings quilts
under television antennas
while her son
sells combs and shawls
to those who live
beneath the crooked stairwell
and, who like this mother
despite no reward
believe in a house
kept spotless
and soaked in vinegar
while her daughter
disappoints them all
as she never collected
those glass domes
filled with scenes
of the nativity
or learnt to paint by numbers
A little beauty Claine :)
ReplyDeleteThanks Jeffree x
DeleteI love it, Claine. It's like a scene from a play.
ReplyDeleteI think my recent poems are scenes from narratives. I write prose novels and more and more my poems resemble the kinds of novels I write.
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