illusion

Who is this pretty bruised woman
bearing children for lost angry men?
And who herself seethes with anger
when choices made not seemingly
forgotten or understood.
Bare ignorance is mine entirely,
no judgment as to reasons, to the end
results. Why would anyone fling
honed daggers at innocent bystanders?

And her wandering children outside
could be pretty or homely,
sweet or sour even…
But should always be pretty and sweet
snug to loins which sprung them right?
Shouldn’t their fragile blossoming bodies
be cradled close to mother and father
(but oh not too so closely now)
in brightly lit family rooms?

And where are those fathers anyway?
Fitting perhaps they hide,
never seem to be around anyhow,
back doorsteps flirting with absence.
Tough lifting and holding i suppose
puny disoriented souls, little pink booties
merry-go-round in mud puddles,
dripping warm diamonds and pearls
down murky broken waters in the rain.

How long could innocence be contained
framed through a jagged window pane?
Heartbreaks lurking shame weeps alone.
Born to keep a broken family fed
the children’s bed safe and warm
too many damp socks too little sunshine
neglected hearts grow restless then unkind
till her weary spent calling love breaths
yearn dazed drifts over the thin white lines.

(from a volunteering stint at a women's shelter)
*Photo with permission from the generous and highly gifted Etienne Pisano