A poet needs a poet too and I have a hard time finding the poet in you.
And I wonder,wonder, wonder,can I pray to a mother God?Or must I ask the father oftento take, to haul, my voice abroad?
I’ve named both my kneesso when they’re scratchedor burned or scorned I can speak of themas if their painfor me has not been borne.
I’m bruising to prove I’m still feeling. And I’m feeling so bruised that living is hard.