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.
