Egypt.


Before the Manna, Quail and Mt. Sinai

I draw only bad cards
"Pull!"
The bullet goes wide
I know I don't hit the mark
With you
With anyone
And if the tower means violence
But it's only my hopes and fears
That shatter
No one pulls a knife on me
Or runs after with a hatchet
The world doesn't dissolve
Into a million little bits
Into mortar and bricks
Unfortunately
I try not to get clay on my feet
As I round the corner
Past the fence, moat and drawbridge.

They refuse to give me straw
But I'm expected to produce
Brick after brick
Word after word
The same rate
Day after day
I'm not known for consistency
Who holds the whip?
Am I some leather-decked dominatrix?
But the ten of wands
Is still in the deck
It's not that I fear oppression
Adrenaline pumping
It's just that I'm so used to it.

2006 Anne Westlund




Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 780 times
Written on 2006-10-21 at 22:05

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