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Black Gold
January 6, 2013
Hands made of dust and dirt
Picking corn
By
corn
Born
Cracks scream out
Of Ripping lips
Of mouths that have stretched
too wide
Of moans meant to go far
Cracks scream out
(at every touch)
for avoidance to set them free.
Let that blood run
As it has been
Stuck_ under mother earth
Long before
It was red.
And I say
Frailty, thou hast no name.
© Alissa F., Marblehead, MA
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