Bathing in Kitchens. Something of 30. #napomo

Anna Karenina backstrokes the moon,
while my mother bathes Lyndsay in the kitchen sink.
I marvel at the bubbles, the glow of outerbridge
stretching toward New Jersey.

Women’s bodies bend;
the heart hardly fits
in a cage made of bone;
whose daughter am I now?

The cherry blossoms have fallen,
the new shoes in the closet
have petals stuck to the soles,
no dishes on the counters.

Tomorrow.
We will reconvene tomorrow
when the brambles have grown
into dreaming.

The wood splinters,
yields to the carpenter,
as a child
finally calls for his mother.

No one floats face up anymore,
it’s not the fashion.
Do not sideways speak around
a lyre, or the strings will
echo Ocean.

Everyone lives with a flower inside them.
Some growing only happens after dark.
The lilac of Anna,
Moon milk of my mother,

I listen with a bridge in my
Dreaming.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
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