about women who have been
worn by Motherhood
the eye the sunshine
is sunny
a face is in a sunroom with sobs
all her cooking is empty - ingredients
where a soul has, no recipe, blood
eggs are pushing
silently sunny side up
over cliffs, a cry is not a song
a bedless wind, becomes a bundled baby
if those wounds are in bandages detached
a cantoloupe blue
soft lays a gigantic wind
carrying her insides, now honey and cut through
copyright 2010
