By Sharon Thompson
swift and snake-like
salad and bread.
Strikes the face of
her fair-skinned child.
I snap away to a window
too slowly to miss the smacking sound
as it ricochets off my bones.
My jaw aches.
rocking the child curled in her lap,
glossed lips croon, chin and nose
nestle the thick hair of her offspring.
She inhales grief.
keeping the snarl of criticism at bay.
I am sharp and often angry.
Unforgiving of those,
struggling to adjust
the angular shape of life
to opulent curves and rounded breasts.
My disapproval ignorant
of the world in which she dwells.
We should still live in lodges.
Loose-breasted and chubby.
to roll over and sleep
needs a nap, too.
About Sharon Thompson
Sharon Thompson has been writing for most of her life. Love of reading and writing led to a twenty-year career teaching high school English, first in Los Angeles and finally in the San Diego area. Now retired, Sharon enjoys focusing on her writing, attending workshops and reading her work for others. She lives with her dachshund, Sam, in Temecula, California, close to her two grown sons.
Photo credit: Simple Insomnia via a Creative Commons license.