Wednesday, January 11, 2012



I am tired of slanted truth
Afternoon light which warms the room
but never reaches my starving skin

I want brisk and cold floodwaters
Mama's voice blunt in my ears
For once answering my lament
even if to deny me

To admit I was not seen, not
chosen. The blood I've pooled
in my own palms is no use now
even to feed the geraniums. Wash up
and go elsewhere for supper.

Copyright Maggie Jochild, Written 11 January 2012, 2:08 a.m.