Slept all morning, noon, then on boots and mittens and it was asexually a bear. Oh. Actually. It actually stood with a fist high up. Who would guess? Who would brave a guess? And they wanted a picture. I took three four five. Noreen and I laughing. And all the great icicles had fallen from the roof. Not on them. Not on their creation. They could have put one in the great bear’s Ursus major. Who would. Who could send lighting. Such shafts. I am just an old woman and who am I to think when my children sleep warm under my roof with a stranger. And he’s a nice boy. Short hair. Ears stick out a bit. Smile. Good smile. And goats and a pig in Canterbury. Franky brought me a calendar with the chicken show. Sprout. Sand TV. And she has a weekend off and came to see us. But really Johnny and the snowbear in the yard has a raggedy homeless scarf and a hat but it mustn’t cover his ears. Your ears. Oh cover my ears and think of that boy crying out in the deep night. Different boy. Not this one. This one plays sad songs in the farthest pasture and dances which I cannot explain. Daggers. So I sit at this desk waiting. The man I do love is hated by you. My children my mother and sometimes. Me.
July 31, 2025 [Issue 46]
Grey Sparrow Journal 