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The condemnation comes down harder than the rain from Hurricane Ike.
There are spikes and snakes headed my way.
My feet itch with blood and poison.
I’m pretending like I’m a good hearty stoic pioneer woman.
I can drive the wagon.
I can plot the trail.
I can make fire.
I can push the babies out and take care of the horses.
Reality slaps the biscuit from my hand.
Truth is I’m a ghost, a fragment, a poodle, a paper doll.
I’m soggy and whimpering but the ears are all stopped up.
The hands are slicing away with myriad knives.
People are starved for my kind.
I ooze the sweetest filling.
- misti rainwater-lites
