on her little shoulders,
the planets, the stars, sun
and the moon. The countries
and continents. She's a walking

cartoon. She's bent over
from the weight. They loaded
her small paper plate. And she
stumbles and trips because

it's easy to slip wearing
the world across her back like
a gunny sack. She was born
carrying the cross. Her mother

nailed her umbilical cord
to it. Every day she walked
toward the door her mother pulled it
like a dentist does to a decayed

tooth. Batting her around like she
was Babe Ruth. When she dies she'll
be buried in a coffin with a wide berth,
laying her load down in the earth.