Stewing Storm


I stew, seethe and sorrow. I am a woman.
I love.

There is a yearning. It penetrates the wall of silenced fear.
A slow ache, amorphous yet round all at once.
Closed circle.

I am broken. I was never really fixed.
It’s just that I feel the lack of a whole now.
I age.

No longer I bear the one way pouring.
What goes out must have a coming in.
I am sere.

My mind teases out strands of sense.
They float above my pavement feet.
I waver.

It is time to be honest, let it seep in.
Some people must die and go home.
To free me.