Tiny Coffin
.
We crawl
in dewy grass, gather
rotten apples.
I tell my sisters
about a girl
secretly gave birth,
hid the baby in a
shoebox, never
returned to class.
We giggle
a story of a lady
sewed a gown of chintz.
Black widows stitched
inside careful seams
seeming protectors.
Bloomed poison red
dots across
her belly.
When I thought
I could be
a mother
was too late.
Under shadow
of mature trees
sour brown
fruits
fill baskets.
We make
cartwheels
on the clean lawn.
