Love Poem in
General
There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
while she married over and over, taking you
along. How could it work,
when all those years she stored her widowed heart
as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are,
afraid of blood, your women
like one brick wall after another.
By Louise Gluck
Tell Your Friends About It |
Print This Poem
Comments
You should be logged in to be able to leave comments
Other poems by Louise Gluck:
|
Poetic People is a service mark of Broken Entity Media.