To My Children

Red wings cross my wrists,

Lapping with a sacred thirst.

It is as warm as mother’s milk, I coax,

Comforting, like a Xanax sojourn.

My lips moving, sending words to God’s ears,

Doubtful they’ll ever get passed the stars,

Even with the noise in my head turned down low.

“Sport, I say, they used to dance around me.  I was

The center, the gravitational pull.  I think I’ve turned

Out to be not what they expected.”

I also did not know that this woman I’d become

Would be pushing them in me like needles filled with heroin

And stuffing words into shoe boxes marked:

What could have been.

 

 

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