a sporadic hollow-hull moan
that twists around me as the ivy girdles historic homes --
pullingin the bulges of aching.
I crave the airing sheets of river wind,
the relentless fields that turn a body into a salt lick;
Your concrete placenta is not hospitable to the demons:
dandelion, wild carrot, kale
who force their bitter truth upon the mouth,
cleaning the ulcer of doubt;
it could not bake in thick clay
reminding man that he is not the only shape to come forth.
(c) 1995 Susan Paige Shoemaker