What world do you speak of That fetishizes the mother And turns itβs back on the infant Pursing Suckling Like a bee on a Carmellia in July
What is inside of me that hasnβt Already been emptied? Do you every wonder, Why, we mothers Bake our children cookies Only to wrap our heads in cloth?
And our husbands, God rest their souls, Will burn down the walls To put out the fire