Parentage of a Millstone

In life’s waiting room,
a harpy mute.
Pain is creeping somewhere,
the birth of all things.
In a chair, an old woman
suckling a doe.
Tonight she will wring its neck,
leave the meat to rot.

Quivering in the cold carpet,
a cigarette painting her image
in ash.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.