She wore a weak leg,
two hands of grievance
That would often beg
Baptists bowl creedence
Slept with the sons,
whispered to the daughters
Voices like kitchen crumbs
Mumbles I never bothered
Her voice carried
In a clammy palm
That at once buried
An ancestor embalmed
Many spectators to this
This great deterioration
Out of her mouth a hiss
I hold none, no adoration
To her I owe
Many things unsaid
We live in a shivered home
In hallways she treads
But none the less
She is my lady
My skull hers to caress
My only, lovely baby
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
She wore a weak leg,
two hands of grievance
That would often beg
Baptists bowl creedence
Slept with the sons,
whispered to the daughters
Voices like kitchen crumbs
Mumbles I never bothered
Her voice carried
In a clammy palm
That at once buried
An ancestor embalmed
Many spectators to this
This great deterioration
Out of her mouth a hiss
I hold none, no adoration
To her I owe
Many things unsaid
We live in a shivered home
In hallways she treads
But none the less
She is my lady
My skull hers to caress
My only, lovely baby
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