Let the dog out
tell her she’s a good girl
grab a coffee from the shattered
woman who gave birth.
Each of us with words stuck
in our throats.
The previous night
she sat on the hot seat again
but this time was personal
and between the whipped one
and the mom.
Holding firm with a quiver of arrows
the mom drew and shot repeatedly;
with a shrug of the shoulders
and an amused grin
the former downtrodden held firm.
The mom, miss perfect, who feels
so rotten inside is primping both
deed and voice. Innocent,
she always is, as she deals with
incredible guilt inside.
Her utterances are of other’s
misdeeds, carefully braoched
to not sound like complaints.
My answers are short,
like curtains drawn.
The disassociation has begun
and she’s pretending it’s okay.
The one most resistant to
change is the one
who has the most to lose.
All I say is
“I’m not going to bring it up again,
but I’m not going to let it go, either.”
Purple Pennies 