Someone I love very much is trapped by her anger and I fear will stay there as it is by now familiar: warm and safe as the inside of a septic tank. Until the rot sets in and the infection too and she won't be able to breathe. And people can't be around her because of the stink. And I fear for her and for all of us who love but are but a helpless bystander to another's insanity. Loving detachment is the order of the day.
Fine Dining
A full plate.
Of many piles of sludge.
Going back and back.
Maybe to the Famine.
Going back and back
To foremothers
Who swallowed it
And brought it up
For you to pick at
With your sharp utensils
Over and over. Say it:
Four thousand days
And counting one more
Now. Gulp it down, girl
Clean your plate. De-bile,
De-louse, De-frown.
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