years on him. Years she can
not pull back like her cornflower duvet
covers. Years she stood and hovered
as a slave for all she gave, holding the glass

pieces as they were cutting her hands
and fingers. She wasted so many
briny drops of crystal hops, weeping
as a willow, hanging onto the edges of

her pillow. Soaking up the quilting
cotton, wondering how she got in
all this mess? Still holding onto
barrels full of stress. She wasted

her baby years on starbursts and
screams, plucking every crimson colored
petal for steam. Holding a fist-full of thorns
that tore her from her dreams.