ME:
My legs are tired from all the standing still,
and my lungs they hurt from exalting your praises.
I repeat the myth created,
does it do me any good?
Do we believe the things we tell each other?
The things we tell ourselves?
How you are the field,
I am the woman pushing away the corn stalks.
Plucking golden cones -
shaving all the gold
the charm.
Singing. Yelling. Screaming your praises.
The work. Oh the work.
How I've worked.
How I've worked your praises into the earth.
How I've folded everything in. Turned it in.
What do I expect?
YOU:
Are terrifying.
The one good thing to come into my life.
Like a sale shelf,
I am the housewife on the sidewalk looking in.
I cannot turn away.
I am drawn in.
Bring me good fortune.
Bring me fame.
Bring me a happy home.
Master of the shop, you keep me here.
Although I will return, I ask if your wares will come with me.
Have I saved enough? Have I worked hard enough to take you home?
No comments:
Post a Comment