I cannot pull my hair taunt with gleam.
Never wanted beautiful…with picture perfect theme.
No more to place-mats with Irish names.
No, amen, to turned out, cowered women.
Women of porcelain design.
As sure as, the red river flows.
A Devil may care.
Of that, I am aware.
Two way mirrors, in broken homes.
Little girl games of ‘pretend’ whilst the great divider…
hollow doors,
amasses,
patiently awaiting barren men.
How silly,
a slim sow,
to place vanity so high.
How pretty,
the little girl poet,
who begs to wonder why.
