.html When Mother is Silent

When Mother is Silent

I count cracks in concrete

and where they meet

I drop

my roots and watch

 

a balding middle-aged man enter

a shiny red convertible, and

I wonder

if he was unfaithful.

 

And that woman—

I could rip out her hair,

like weeding

stepmothers from my garden.

 

Our roots pushed at fissures,

(leaves, calloused by feet)

to conquer our slice of sun

 

— for this?

Even now, my M-16  

sides with me:

coexist in peace,

or crack

into concrete,

weak with roots

weak for

one more sip of rain.

 

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