Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Weed

An overgrown weed
clinging to the driveway,
a living thing.

I pull it out
feeling its hurt.

Granted, the comparison is remote,
but what good is a festering wound
or a pre-cancerous mole left alive?

Still, why does my touch leave
a bite mark, and
why did I,
in my extreme matriarchy,
not trust anything foreign
on my children’s path?

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Prompt: A Regret