Tattered wooden frame

weeds bent against my bare legs

tickled by a scratchy heat

my cotton dress

washed and worn apart.

You turn your head

to hear

a hollowed out wind

in a vacant field

breezes which circulated hundreds of years ago

and escaped from the breath of a baby

at it’s mothers breast

coming softly forth

unlike the crushing wail forced out when pushed from the

safe moist warmth

of Mother

she yelped

an arched

and clutched forward

as she wished she had needed to

when

the one in her arms was conceived

Her Repressed,

forced silence

accepted resentfully

compressed to a hard strength

waiting to be utilized

through whispered hushes to sons and daughters

hoping to eradicate

the Way Things Have Always Been

one poignant subtlety at a time, each mild rebuke, each weary gaze and gentle encouragement

crafted into a hope of change

pissed away in a dirty alley

clean shoe planted in puddle

given up on her daughter’s knees

gagging on a cock shoved

where her voice should have been

But this is before time

in an old barn

and we’re lifting old fabric out of a box

before a few weeks pass

and you shoot a bird

and cry

for the bird  is only singing;

this is when we learn of sin

and we are only eating fruit

when the juice slides down our chins.