After the waning, half-blue moon, behind my eye,
the smokestack appears with yellow sky,
a praise-song, and a tear.
Remember man that you began in woman.
Remember man your fetal form (once you were female too).
Remember this and praise our song.
Blood is Thicker Than Wine
And we fight about the bread and the shrimp and the Pepsi
because the Christmas tree has short needles.
And I’m sorry ours was so small. No, you’re not a bad mother.
Just shut up!
Paul’s eyelashes are sticking together—don’t you see?
He’s not even here and you love him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Linda Muller has resurrected her writing soul living in Iowa City, attending weekend workshops and hoping to start up a poetry slam in the City of Literature.