Little girl didn't catch many breaks.
Except when she was hiding
under the house.
There, she could smell the cobwebs
speaking to the dust
in her dolly tea-cups.
She hid a while behind a man.
Until she learned
what she now preaches:
Don't drink the Kool-Aid.
She took children no one else wanted,
and spun worlds around them.
When they grew up, she didn't stop
spinning and twirling.
She took the ones that couldn't walk
that couldn't talk
that wouldn't sleep.
She makes mint tea
but plays hard-ball
She opened up a shop,
where half the town
met to chew the breeze.
Wish I could wave a wand
to sort out all of her
antique plates and jiggety-jogs.
No can do.
But I would give her a suggestion:
put up your feet, you stubborn Cherokee,
close your eyes, and rest a bit.
If all your children
around your chair--
we'd form a
of many colors.
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...
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