Friday, March 30, 2007

Poem About Spit Up


Mothers, wear it proudly, that splotch of spit-up
on your collar, shaped like nothing in particular. Pretend
it’s the most finely crafted brooch, concocted by a wild
artist from New Orleans who works in a dank swamp
beside her dogs and dark lover. All snakey hair
and languid eyes, she is outrageously beautiful, chock
full of voodoo. Did she call to you, voice like a river, then
point with her tick-tock hands till you had to have every
otherworldly piece of hers, no matter what the cost? She’s
terribly dangerous and every day you thank her.

--Heather Davis

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