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Gwen Walsh Poem
Strong, like kingdom walls,
stacks of sandbags, swamps of quicksand,
or barricades of filigreed barbed wire.
It holds me inside.
I can see myself in eleven years.
Perched on sterile metal instead of
mountains of handmade quilts,
or nests of woven moss.
It will have turned love-making and child-bearing
from an art to a science,
and I will paint pictures
of how being a woman is supposed to feel.
Copyright © Gwen Walsh | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Gwen Walsh Poem
We can’t catch the breezes inside,
so we take to the porches, verandas, fire escapes.
Watch an asbestos moon rise
over steaming rooftops,
and count flags from far away cities.
Below, beetles swallow our Elm trees whole,
as I listen to the neighbors bickering
and someone else’s harmonica.
Copyright © Gwen Walsh | Year Posted 2011
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