by Justine C. Tajonera
I'm sorry for raising
my voice,
leaving you to yourself
as I complain
about my aching
back.
When you spilled
the carton of milk
on the floor
I hardly recognized
myself,
a witch with a
mop,
wailing.
You won't remember,
perhaps,
when you are all
grown up.
Or that is what
I hope.
In the meantime,
come over here,
let me
begin
again.
For Badger
(March 26, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/haldiroflorien/352232070/
