• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 11
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Most days I wake
and drag this diagnosis
off the bed and over me,
a cloak of lead.

In grocery aisle
I fear the endless stacks of tins
are my refection;
my collection
of childhood scars.

School pickup socializing
depletes me.
Each word, each touch,
the other mothers
carve out their piece.

But sleep, though brief
is where I live.
Between the blanket toss
and unseen cups
are deep dreams;
sweet solitude
where the leopard leaps
in vast greens.



With smooth strength
I circle back and seek
the slaughter
of each perpetrator;
the explosive high of rage released.
Still drenched in blood and filth
I growl myself awake.