Wayfaring Mother

I watch you droop your weight

into sheets after working long

hours and your hair lays flat

from the grease. I’m convinced

That you throw yourself every

day in hopes of being caught.

Your daily intake of this toxic

feeling makes your life seem

so vulgar. The happiness melts

away and your kin suffers from

abandonment too. Your hands

rest, bruised from the pottery.

Not of clay, but of the shaping

of pure life. The grind.