The Incident That is My Morning

I hold the squirming winter of my life in my hands like some dying thing. God willing I will drag it’s limp husk of a body back to the river before anyone sees. Maybe it will sense that perfect pulsing thing and lay belly down in the grass and finally remember it’s dads birthday.

In all my inevitable failure I will seek to feed its desecrated remains to my mother and pick at her skin until it’s raw and dying too.

 Beastly woman, gentle child.