Dreamed of Crimson
last night.
The color of blood,
a symbol of pain –
Crimson on the streets;
streaked in the snow;
steeped in the Ground.
crimson on our hands,
we reek of it,
blinded and choking on it.
redemption can only come by it.
grief
summer
always so activating,
the summer months,
for me:
so much skin exposed,
flesh seemingly everywhere-
breasts
legs
midriffs
butt checks-
all as overwhelming
and stifling
as the humidity
and the heat
and that inner voice
incessant speak:
“cover up and hide,
yours is not a body
for display to the outside.”
Marie’s Lamentation
The Mother gave birth
To three daughters
None of whom
Would ever bore another.
Two of the daughters –
The eldest and the youngest
No longer carry their uterus.
Two surgeries-
The one, reluctant to wake from Anesthesia’s deep slumber.
The other, she almost did not recover.
The only daughter with all organs intact,
Chose to walk a childless path.
The Mother
is sad
heartbroken
grief-ridden.
Blaming herself
for the end of the family line.
No legacy, only perceived decline.
“Why”” she asks, wailing at her Fate.
“Did I
in Life
make a horrendous mistake?”
burgeoninc 