Dissension
And I am perched on her slow-rocking hips,
Too old to be lulled like this
My jaws lock up with bursts of sweet and sour—
The toppled chair on our back porch,
Heaved from the living room,
Reads clearly: Opposition.
There is an undercurrent—
red wine and disdain.
Praise Jesus! High-five!
My father by the woodpile,
Tells me to pedal and pushes my small body toward Motion.
The pink training wheels he tossed
Into tall grass shrink, and I leave them
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2 comments:
"hallelujah!" :)
Vivid and unexpected, fascinating to read.
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