by jexmas on September 4, 2014

My mother used to refer to her breasts sometimes as dugs
As if she was a sheep and we were little lambs hanging off her teats
Sometimes her phrases still come to me as I fall asleep
And dream of those days when we were sane
It was a time when words were tame and meant
The same thing as whatever we were feeling
I had to escape at the end of those days
By then, when I was sixteen
Our words had ceased to mean anything
Like we had intended them in the first place
By then, we had breasts, my sister and me
She was three years older and we were not yet sheep
But fillies, gangly girls
All legs and the energy of the wild and young.
My mother’s breasts had shrunken and sank and lost heart by then
She was, in fact, dying her death in those days
I might even say she dug her own grave in a way
She gave in and gave up, caved in, kept her mouth shut
What words we had were spent and gone away
She was old mutton and we were on our way

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