ccccWhom she learned the art or dissonance of protest from
Whether it was ingrained or born on hot kitchen towel like fresh bread
Rising, the irresistible urge to devour all whilst fresh
She couldn’t say
But catching herself
Playing little shadow games
It became clear
Like the women before her she was not
A straight talker
For she was unable to speak plainly
She hurt all over
Her whole self would have confessed
Oh timorous Lord
I don’t seem capable of much
It is enough to keep my head on my shoulders?
The ache the screw the twist
I am tired before I have woken
Because truth be told
Humanity sickens my soul
And when you hate your own
There’s nowhere to go
They tried
Oh they tried
To interest her in their tête à tête
And she grew sickly
And incomplete
Only the circulated vowels of earth
Could ease her need
To be freed
Of her kind