Up north, near borders and manure,
a woman lives with a Texas LongHorn.
She grows red potatoes and
asparagus in spring water.
She nudged her children
with long pitchforks, for all the years
that she could.
Poking,
prodding,
until ladybugs and snake skin
wrapped her
thick construction sick.
I had a son. White ash hair,
marble blue sight.
The woman’s Ladybug’s tampered him.
So, he trampled them!
One after another.
Crunch. Crunch.
Like good mother’s do, I told him “NO!”
He cried.
I sneezed,
and when I did, my poor soul
escaped.
No woman blessed me.
No child cried.
But, that woman! That woman with her potatoes,
and her asparagus,
and her giant Texas LongHorn
grew beastly horns that
poked,
that prodded,
sharper than pitchforks.
