Confessional

I don’t understand this post-modern bull crap.

The writer and the soul of the poem

should sing sweet sounds

and fall into a harmony

that is genuine, unfragmented –

beautiful.

Why did the writer stop flying out of her cage?

Her success has led her to stay at home

feeding a baby who has an unquenchable thirst.

She used to dream of sheep and castles.

It’s been getting colder and greyer but she bleaches her hair.

She is now a blonde bombshell.

An end-all-be-all who prays to God her husband

looks at her at least once a week.

She sits at a laptop with spreadsheets and emails.

Disassociated, fragmented, and often jittery.

Her narration skips a beat every time the baby wakes up crying

at 2:30 am, 2:52 am, 4:47 am, 6 am –

wake up at 7 am sharp.

And he’s gone in silence.

Business became a metaphor for sexual frustration

and polygamy.

The grey days grow long and wet.

And yet she smiles at the cashier,

sings to her baby,

but her song doesn’t harmonize.

She isn’t used to singing solo.

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