What
am I but an extension of my mother’s labyrinth,
a creature meant to bend and slide through
corridors of refuse,
walking
on the chipped pavement till my shoes rot away and my soul touches the grimy
earth that yearns to swallow me as it has swallowed millions like me,
women teetering on the tremulous, sharp edged
blade of time,
turning out their pockets for cigarette stubs,
shrugging off advances and bills and weak
paychecks and everyday people who would
eat
your heart if they could,
slice it up and spice it up on a plate,
the inevitable pull of currents dragging us
downward,
pregnant and dilapidated, maids to trolls, keepers
of the brood,
a sorry lot of bed-wetters, prospective
alcoholics,
future drug addicts and wife beaters,
little boys and girls who just weren’t able to
be happy,
just like their mothers, just like their
mother’s great sprawling messes,
abysses that yawn and call for more and more
and more,
their stomachs as endless as the company I
keep,
my kin, my kind, my home.
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