MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
Tampa Bay Sunset by Lisa Shea

Table of Contents

Poetry


Homestead

Tara Borin

Out here it doesnít matter
if I never get dressed,
chop wood in my long underwear,
squat lazily outside the cabin
under twisted spruce trees.

Thereís no one around to hear me yell
at the kids,
or to see me slap the oldest
when he bites the baby.

Weeds donít matter,
petunias dying in their pots
donít matter,
because only the whiskey jack
ever stops for tea.

I canít refuse her, so
invite her in,
ask after her soot-coloured young:
have they fledged, can they fend
for themselves.
She tilts her head, perched
on the lip of her mug,
her black-bright eyes critical
of my featherless children.

I shoo her off,
cast her out with the cold dregs of tea,
unaware I am crying
again.




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