Friday, June 12, 2009


Saving Grace

Burnt twice past
a Sunday,
I’m not sure
it's shyness,
this quiet way
in which I protest.

My feelings,
or the shadow
looming over
my scary lot,
is not as bizarre
as my screaming.

Who do you
think you are--
--my mother?!?!?
renews the shame
among the sad remains
of who I have become.

From the inside.
sticking too far out,
the frail sticks,
and heavy stones,
I used for bones
shatter at my feet.

2 comments:

Gerry Boyd said...

A familiar tale with an original twist. This last stanza is spectacular! Bravo!

Anne Cunningham said...

oh my, thanks! and i took a quick peek at your poetry blog and suffice it to say, there is no such thing as a quick peek at your blog!

i can't wait to go back!

weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! woot!