Red

Poetry

The earth mother around the corner

gave permission for the women of our street to let down the blood.

The plum blossoms turned pink

and children found surprising beetroot soup in their dinner bowls.

The week stretched into wine glasses

all fossiky with the dregs.

Matriculated, the weekend scratched at the surface of things

until they became blistered and curled

busted up offerings of paper parcels

that over and overed in the garbage strike

each one etched with sacred mess;

life giving has come to this:

bury it and sound no alarm.

The goddess built for comfort, not speed

shakes her great wide girth.

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