Into the mouths of babes,
the bottomless craw of a needy child;
they cluster at my hip,
wanting more.
Here, I pay and pay for sins I did not commit.
Not in this house,
this generation.
But fat must be rendered.
The brand will burn.
Whosoever in the house is not happy,
speak now —
But lips are clamped and tongues bitten through,
and nothing is said, not a sound.
We go on feeding the hungry,
filling that hole,
walking through quicksand.
Time to heal all wounds.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
