she’s well acquainted

milk runs down her face, over sheer lace,
over black silken dress, not

like glue paste on coloured paper, put away
when classrooms forgot

to teach; dripping, dripping onto a dirty
linoleum floor where

dark gray water in yellow buckets got
mopped under children’s

lives; P.C. 31 watching mason’s brick
cover up windows where

once small faces were more interested
in skinned knees and

silver chutes in playgrounds, now books
and crayons gasp for

light; she remembers freckles in places
where mascara black

drips down onto an attic trunk Victorian
dress; anglo saxon church

school house adjacent, heard the steeple
bells at recess, heard

them when she sang in the choir, when she
wore a virgin color;

baby born under a thatched roof overlooking
a blue sea, he traveled,

never came back from afar, she raised with
heart and soul,

always read from the good book; daughter
off to school where glue

paste ran down coloured paper, where her
young face laughed with

arms spread out sliding down silver chutes,
learning when her

mother taught a refined essence, but that
was banned; she saw

happiness in a daughter’s face, gold round
on a finger as chapel

bells rang; love in a cottage when a grand
daughter was born…

milk runs down the daughter’s face, over
sheer lace, over

black silken dress…

Copyright © 07/25/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

Image

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