I choose to paraphrase "The Victory" by Anne Stevenson on pg 506. I this is how I interupt the poem.
I still thought you were my prize possession even though having you and bring to into this world was so painful. You looked nasty covered in blood and still blue. You were out of me but I was still bleeding from the remnants of you. You stare at me with empty bug looking eye. You make the air tense as you cry loud shrieks. You don't do anything for your self you need and want so much. You grunt wanting food. You are my son. You are all of this chaos but I still love you. Are you really my prize or am I your?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment