a poem

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I am the mother to the self and tell it

No, you’ve had enough

And it, myself, says that this is no problem

Didn’t want more anyway, really

And of course the mothering me is tired

Is always tired, and other me, also me

Knows this, of course

And so…



A poem

Photo by the author

Then there were two

And always less or more

It all depended how you counted

All depended who kept score


My passivity has led

To nothing worth report

Observe, offer retort

If in the end

It turns out we were wrong

Who’ll tell us, who’ll care?