Lines

Lines

The lines connecting  her limbs
have become thread-bear a
She joins the rest of the meat-sticks
with their pear-shaped heads full of eye-holes,
and scare-crow hair covered in coal dust.
The long line snaking its way into the grinder.
The line moves a little...a little more.


She hides the blackberries of her husbands disapproval.
She hides them  with  cotton leaves of  poverty.
Except for the ones on her neck, where he almost plucked her
as she fell against the wall with a rushing hiss.
The castanets of her belly clack away in dual rhythm
with the rest of the tin can chorus around her.
And they wait their turn in the revolving crescendo
of the human orchestra of pain and misery.



Her stilts stumble on a crooked, cracked smile.
It mocks her, biting at her torn black and blue shoes.
The flies flitting about, incessantly buzzing the side holes.
There is oblivion before her as she nears the end of the line.
Cerberus stands alert, to the relief of all at the gates.
The grinder heat cuts rivulets of sweat  into her.
To wit, she asks but one question: why?
Because I can, was the only reply.