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.