i make home of my mothers bloodied *****
there in which i sit in place of her heart
folded in upon oneself;
a shirt neatly placed within a drawer
careful hands awaken a fragile mind
cleft thoughts born from heavy tongues,
a mar amongst the brood.
draped over with shadow left by matron-age
heed the call of the other,
for naïveté will be one’s ruining
when those who give care
mislay their aptitude for it amongst the babe and wash.