Just rests like a nest in the throat
brittle little eggs of excuses
warming under all the mother henning.
Splinter the painted shell,
it is a labor to be meek and understood.
To prove you're more bird than windless wings will take a second sky
but they just won't look,
they
just
Echoing like a stomped foot,
just, like a child's plea,
clutching breast but nary a fist,
oh won't you just listen?
Worry woven basket
passed down by mothers never to sons.
How they coddle and count their eggs.
They swallow what hasn't yet
cracked, burst, or gone runny
fingering the thin membrane between honor and reason.
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