talk to her

talk to her, she may see things differently

she must ache in motherhood, in Silence

waiting for the word to come down from the Sea

and wash her in its cooling balm its violent

nature not unknown by those of us who dream

a wicked dream, a nightmare spent in solitude

beneath a Sky; it is here that we may seem

to be a little more cantankerous, in this abode

where shelter screams all day without impunity

our hearts out and longing in our breast

as every phrase beckons to us its ferocity

to chide the very devil from his Nest –

Is it here in your foreboding that you Sing

your verses ripe with venom, bite, and sting?