I haven’t written about being in the bath in a while.
Larkin wrote about lambs whilst I write about
the pink between my toes; wondering if when
I was born I knew I would be raised for the
slaughter. My lamb eyes blinking, drinking
in the sun.
Until I learned how to drink bathwater.
Drown myself incrementally until my knees
quit wobbling and I stepped in line.
In line for the words which tumbled with
Bambi grace from my mother’s lips
when she called it madness.
And I see her too, just waiting for the shears
and left wandering lonely hillsides;
so I forgive her.
& bleat because lessons are never learned.
I realise now this has nothing to do with the bath
apart from how heavy water is when it sits
in your lungs -stones in overcoat pockets-
apart from how often I wonder if my chewy
lamb heart ever knew I would be raised for the
slaughter and still call it madness rather than method
& bleat because lessons are never learned.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020
My poetry collections:
This is wonderful
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Thank you ♥️
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I love this poem! Especially the line, “ drinking in the sun”!!!
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Thank you ☺️
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