Landmine
Why would a mother who lost
her first seed, feeding off genetic strength
a spring bud busted through hard ground-
the patch of un-kept soil hanging out
next to the redneck projects where self doubt
potential is shot directly into the veins
with silver bullet tongues- place a masterpiece
self portrait of her angel over the porcelain structure
Dressed in transparent pinks, orange, and beige
shroud; only the very observant will reflect
a presence just above the out of date vanity cabinet;
sitting over the hand sanitizer, where just to the right
behind one more jewel, antiquity find of simplistic wood
framed mirror holding up silk and plastic bouquet
of spring flowers. Never faded by artificial light
or snarky looks, just part of a shrine,
five by seven room reminding a renter of where she came,
what she is capable of, and what life holds no matter
what was plucked- beauty no longer seen to the naked eye
fills more than just a small space, but has to walk
out the door- time after time, and plant a seed
in another lonely plot of ground
watered by much needed tears from every passerby.
