fern capella

You are woolen, coarse and brusque,scraping away my residue, tough with broken teeth, chewing nails, your mother just like any other girl,  head first, knickers showing, no comma, no respite, hanging around this seedy city, cowgirl at her local saloon, and everybody asks “how is the baby?” oh, he’s fine, left him some crackers and milk, told him, baby, I won’t be long.” You, iron child, howl against her vacuum, “where are you?” “what have you done?” Your mother has no easy answers. Tonight you sing her the lullaby.