My Inner Child Is A Drunken Whore

says the Facebook poster. My head snaps back
an arrow of recognition pierces my throat
a gurgle of laughter and blood gushes up

O baby
how I covered you under my years
striving for virtues and careful sobriety

And now look at us―surprise!―
all decked out in crone skin

Come on, kiddo, let’s play
Look: we’re whole-safe-happy
enough
Let’s quit this hide and pretend
Let’s hold hands and go out
dancing

 

Turning Floaty

I’m floaty, says my sister, like cloud
animals we used to watch, shifting

Tumbled, says my friend, like a shell
sanded in the wash of wave and tide

Unmoored, I say, lost my anchor
chain rusted through

We trusted myths of terra firma then
launched ourselves among the flotilla

each sailing her own small vessel
all rigged out and confident

forgetting tornado, volcano, hurricane,
wildfire, earthquake, meteor strike

forgetting change as the only constant
and us, dear ones, unmasked

peeking around doorjambs
startled to find ourselves

in deep mirrors

© Carol Bindel

Carol Bindel lives quietly in rural Maryland from where she writes often and publishes occasionally. Her writing has appeared in numerous places, including Buddhist Poetry Review, UU World, Time of Singing, Women of Spirit, Mature Living, Manorborn, The Gunpowder Review. Her first book, Inherited Estate: A Song Cycle, is presently available from Amazon and may be purchased here.

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