A Dead Poet Laura Ashworth Once you thought you could not have them, rounded belly now a lovely curse, tight grip around the spatula, the bacon spits you cannot write. The daffodils are growing strong it is bee season and they want your flowers. One by one, roots exposed with a face like a fist, you pull them up. Soggy boots at the door he is home. He, the bogeyman the lost daddy the one that slipped inside your ear with ink that gave a wink to all the pretty skirts. He took you half way there, but you drove yourself mad. You never had a chance, cracked against the bowl and poured. The oven, the incubator, the talking stove Amendment
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