mother this disease comes from falling
out of trees, comes from days with too
much sunlight;
blinding.
starts with red apples, starts
but never finishes. and the little boys.
the little boys.
mother this disease comes from the clay
that stains and the torsos that are never
pretty enough. starts with no fresh air
starts but doesn't stop there and
there were monsters and there are monsters
and piecing together broken ties, you
will never find me;
hiding.
and the miracle of life cannot be found
in your daughters storybooks. the miracle
of life is not this;
binding.
mother this disease comes from falling
out of trees, comes from slippery feet,
and fingers forever reaching;
behind me.

02/26/2004

Author's Note: written nov. 14, 03

Posted on 02/26/2004
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