I write eighty-
two miles from where I think
you may be aftermathing
from some form of holiday
as I am from my birth-
place where (oh where)
my wind-broken child-
hood seemed unlike yours, and you
don’t know me, you would need self-
selected distance from how it was and how it felt,
the blend of loving authoritarian protective kindness
of the one plus the more liberating but broken other
shining intellect who knew my tenderly hurt insides
that appeared in full regalia practiced in park
poked through with stiletto feats at center
leaving home without the sandstone and decibels
hushed together in windows closer than comfort
to bray some lovelorn hillbilly makeshift welter
of surreptitious sunshine hiding someplace else.
.
Sheila E. Murphy
.