PLAYWRIGHT. AUTHOR. PERFORMER. PRESENTER.

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The day, the May

Bragging anniversaries

counted up: ten years? Twenty years?

repeat

Another ordinary day when someone was born

and close by that annoying song everyone chants in unison

with candles lighting up their smiling faces,

the burning single fire

perched atop seven minute frosting

lit for ceremony

da da da da, dear so and so,

da da da daaa to you

Before you can count them

another chalks itself up

 

Now May evaporates

with the stillness of birdsound missing

The buzzing of sharp machines fill the void

Compared to two years ago, before the fire

they used to swarm

I used to panic and smash the huge ants

dragging around a black segment full of yellow pudding

There was always a hot day in May

when they descended, their wings shorn,

looking for the cool wet wood

to lay their eggs

but now

Insects are so few they’re now individuals

I can count the bees on the buds

The plants arching up straight towards May sunshine

the ducks already spent with flapping and quacking

embarrassment gestures after he mounts her

now she perches somewhere

staring into the bushes

a sitting duck

her eggs under her

she’s still fertile she still has it

Imagine

wanting

the bleeding

the cramping

the destiny

Now the day

the May

slips through the stillness of morning sun

 

 

 

 

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Mother Marcelle's Spaghetti, as discussed in my podcast, "Some kinda woman - Stories of Us"

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