Now quiet quiet the morning!
The fading of night far out mourns
the falling of your orange peeled
shoulder blades, the way they sliced,

they severed every finger.

Take your fist - throw it fearlessly
at who you feel is your father.
It doesn’t matter if he sees it come.
There’s menace to his motion.

Now dig, dig, nestle deep in the ground;
the first step is a smooth apple core;
round it with diligent ease
to get to the old man’s oak roots.

They will gnarl about your ankles.
There will be no fending them off.
Fast, fast with feet of currents
run to the graveyard with the smallest
headstones. These are your pilgrims.

Now, nestle deep, deep within a mother
Climb low, never rest, she has depths.

10/16/2006

Author's Note: I was told to write a How To poem and this is the result. Edited December 7th

Posted on 10/17/2006
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