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Hush Child

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Alone.
Again in the arms of darkness.

A wet nurse,
An artificial mother.

Tragic Ophelia.
She calls me up to her from my drowning water,


Hush Chil’, ain’t nothin’ bad azit seem.”

A medicine woman,
She moves swiftly.

Around her fleshy neck her homespun healing sack.
Packed tight of dried remedies,
Hawthrone berries.
Rose hip.
Blessed thistle.

Thick therapy.
It mends frayed fortitude,
The reason God made woman.

Her hands are gnarled and worm from life’s demands.
Cracked chocolate,
They are ladles tonight.
Serving up tears as an offering to the bandaged heart God.

She chants; a moonlit sonata,
With haunting legato class.

Like an oleander,
Her beauty is seductively lethal.

But I bleed the same as you,
I bleed your blood.

A saccharine grin,
She knows were she goes when the day breaks.
Half broken or half fixed, she leaves me wanting until twilight. 

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