Maid

Maid


We know of a miracle not yet performed
or weaned from the strangest cow.
We cater to that animal’s needs in every way.
It’s a regular mannequin out in the streets.
But it moves, then we know our life is special,
golden.

As if the luster had originated from us,
only to be offered back to the idol. A daughter
has been taken away from a mother,
who in turn had escaped
a constant flaying of her face and mind. There is
a better luster, she thinks.

But written law always putters with balance. It
holds a red-tip cane. Though compassion
is a buckled walk walked on,
the mother must grow her patience,
invite more weeds. Once she gets up from the floor,
she must master her harvest.

Her daughter are the grains of her tender love,
falling off the golden stalks,
in pretense of fodder.
The miracle once performed is
like giving birth the first time, out
the doors of fateful sequence, the strangest
being.