A hydra humming her own funeral dirge in the middle of City Park,
A wooden spoon turned weapon, broken on her backside, she learned to shut up,
Stealing a pocket-sized pasture overrun with canaries, she thought, at least the meek inherit something,
You are not turning into your mother—the transformation is complete.
A wooden spoon turned weapon, broken on her backside, she learned to shut up,
A pyre built of poison ivy and tea leaves left us too swollen to speak of premonitions,
You are not turning into your mother—the transformation is complete.
You are throwing out the baby with the Boston Harbor bathwater and shooting the itchy-eyed messenger.
A pyre built of poison ivy and tea leaves left us too swollen to speak of premonitions,
Stealing a pocket-sized pasture overrun with canaries, she thought, at least the meek inherit something,
You are throwing out the baby with the Boston Harbor bathwater and shooting the itchy-eyed messenger,
A hydra humming her own funeral dirge in the middle of City Park.
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