BLOOD AND MILK
by Sharlee Mullins Glenn
I dreamed of Oxford . . .
(spires, a thousand spires, endless lectures, musty halls
a solitary self in a Bodleian expanse
A good life my dear Wormwood. An orderly life.)
then awakened to laundry
and things to be wiped
countertops, noses, bottoms)
How did this happen? And when, exactly?
Time flows, it flows, it flows
and there are choices to be made:
left or right?
paper or plastic?
blood or milk?
There's freedom in the bleeding;
bondage in the milk—do not be deceived.
Ah, but it's an empty freedom; a holy bondage,
A sweet and holy bondage.
Five times I chose the chains, those tender chains,
(though once will bind you just as well!)
and checked the crimson flow.
Suckled while dreaming of Trinity Term
but awakened, always awakened, to the laundry
and to that small and cherished captor at my breast.
By: ? (I have to look this up.) But I will add it. Bethany did not write this, nor did I--and hay que give the credit where credit is due! :)
HA! I looked up the poet's name--and it was already up there! Right under the title.
I love this poem!
We are all currently being attacked by either a bad cold or the swarm and mountain clouds of pollen that are floating in the air.
Everyone in my house has a nose that runs like a spigot!
We should be outside playing...but I am inside cleaning up.
Well, attempting to clean...while holding a baby who only wants to be held right now.
Yes. She is in my lap while I am typing this!
Baby Eva says, Hello!