Читать книгу Wicked Enchantment - Wanda Coleman - Страница 22

mean

the day grinds its way slowly into her back/a bad

mattress stiffens her jaw

it is the mindless banalities that pass as conversation

between co-workers

her paycheck spread too thin across the bread of

weeks; too much gristle and bone and not enough

blood

meatless meals of beans and corn bread/nights

in the electronic arms of the tube

mean as a bear

carrying groceries home in the rain in shoes

twice resoled and feverish with flu

it is the early dawn

mocking her unfinished efforts; unpaid bills,

unanswered letters, unironed clothes

tracks

of pain in her face left by time; the fickle high of it

facing the mirror of black flesh

mean as mean can

pushed to the floor but max is not max enough

no power/out of control/anxiety

it is the sun illuminating cobwebs

that strips her of her haunted beauty; reveals

the hag at her desperate hour

children beware