jaztaihreen's Letters
The Spindle
I tiptoe into the room where the crib is
I peer down at myself
Baby girl, as my mother called me
Even when I was a grown woman
I pick her up and cradle her
She can’t hear her parents fighting
She doesn’t know the hell she will go through
Right now she knows the
Sound of her mother’s beating heart
And the lullaby she sings that I can never find…read more