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.