And Nena agreed.
It is just not the day for dads.
This, we were all sure of. And Michael would agree, if given the chance.
It's not like she forgot.
Her memories don’t have a fighting chance at 12.50 an hour.
Animal hair in the tinest of hands, red skin on the tinest of bodies.
An office built for crying.
A not-yet mother built for mothering.
These days I’ve been picturing unruly fires, raw skin, and a little thing called cancer creeping up the bones of a cabinet maker’s legs.
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2 comments:
there's this one sentence that makes me smile, even though this is an overall, beautiful, but sad poem...
a not yet mother built for mothering... that's nice.
you're nice. too nice and too awesome. !
you say we are 11 days in... but you post this two days after the fact... sigh...
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