out of the dust

out of the dust

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WpMetadataReadOngoing<5 mins
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Fri, Jan 30, 2015
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Poetry
Beginning: August 1920 As summer wheat came ripe, so did I, born at home, on the kitchen floor. Ma crouched, barefoot, bare bottomed over the swept boards, because that's where Daddy said it'd be best. I came too fast for the doctor, bawling as soon as Daddy wiped his hand around inside my mouth. To hear Ma tell it, I hollered myself red the day I was born.
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"Mommy, I'm sorry,"I cried. She shook her head,"I told you Jam, you were too young for all that bullshit." "I know mommy, I said I was sorry, what else do you want me to say or do? I just cant do this by myself." "I didnt raise you like this, you are no daughter of mine. Go back to where you came from." She slammed the door in my face making me cry harder. I knew what I did was bad but we all live and learn, right?

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