Phoenix/Woman-Soul

In faces of stranger, friends
I see mirrors of myself
other candle moths seated
around a rickety, old table debating
planning chores in an obsolete
kitchen.

There are versions of me
in Rhonda's dresses,
freshly pressed
and Bobby's scruffy old sneakers
that ooze mud. Blood.
I am the American Dream. Fuses
that blow at two in the morning and must be changed, while I wait, patiently
for John to come home. John
who need me when he needs
me, and does not care that I am there
creating poetry amid
dusty, unused pots, keeping
memories.

Home | About BMF | Contact BMF | Writing Portfolio | Resources