More Truth, Less Metaphor

I have carried infants in my womb.

I have given birth,

but not by choice. I was a mother,

strong as a dandelion

gone to seed

who bows to the wind and lets loose

her offspring to fly,

without thought of her own will.

Some seeds dry out or rot or are eaten;

some take root, out of her sight and touch.

Mother dandelion can only ride the seasons,

blooming, seeding,

and does not grieve the irretrievable

or hate the wind

or wish she were something

other than herself.

dandelion-seeds-wallpaper-2

 

 

 

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Home

You wake

upon the same mattress that once adorned

your crib and cry

because you want to go home.

Your parents have forgotten

that simplest desire, to return

to what came before,

so no one comforts

you but to say you’re already here.

Meanwhile you know

different, know how you’ve come

from everything and nothing

and now this is a shard-sharp something.

It’s a shock. You tear

with the day along its crisp-creased folds, red

from the sun’s throb between buildings,

between heartbeats,

where spacetime’s fault lines rub hot,

like the sight behind your eyelids

when you press them shut.

There’s no helping it, you come to pieces, fall

out of place and out of bed. It’s wild

how you only hear

one stream of thought and only see

one view, one bed, one family, one house

that isn’t home.