Into the dream,
coiled and tense
by the blush of a morning
steps The Daughter-Child.
As the auspice of a swollen desire,
a newborn light moves
over grass and through
and into the white fields.
The sky is dark.
The moon will no longer shine.
The stars have long ago redshifted
into The Obscure.
She thinks about The Father-Husband
and how his body rots
in the church yard,
and of The Son-Child who sits inept,
tormented in sorrow,
broken by the confines
of his own shallow words
that we, in our eagerness, believed
because we needed to.
Because, at the time, it was all we had.
The Daughter-Child passes
the neighboring houses,
the school and the library,
the hospital with its quiet windows.
It is there where The Mother-Wife
now resides watching the monitors that,
in mysterious ecstasy, dance their
limited view of the human
“We are all just violence, you see?”
Mother once said to her Daughter.
“It is our one true inheritance.”
Reaching the bakery
The Daughter-Child looks into the light of
a strange sun.
She feels it,
new and cold through
of a world set adrift.
It is the beginning she thinks.
The dream fades.
The smell of the fresh bread
She hurries inside
to begin her work.