[morning free write]
we carry with us the uninhabitable breathe and bosom of our children, us as children, ripening like medlar fruit always fighting back the decay, i've been questioning lately what we've all left behind, what we traded, that sultry taste of eve's bittersweet fruit beneath the tongue, innocence & knowledge, innocence & madness, madness & the fictitious, fictition & lazy forms of freedom. I do not see the future as I once did- as a little girl in small denim overalls cuffed up at the bottom, with all the tomorrow's that might make me into woman & mother leaning down to me like my father looming overhead to pick me up when I had fallen on the back stoop. my father now, as I've grown older and taller and stranger, no longer looms but stands just as tall as I, while the future, the tomorrow's, grow smaller and crackle like wood in the fire, I can only see now the bits of ember and ash that splatter nearest to me.