Youngest Sister
 

                    I bathed that little bud before it turned to breast.
                    Shoemaker's children of love, we two,
                    you took what nurturing I had to give
                    as though your due.  Who knew
                    the day would come that breast would turn to foe,
                    an exercise in nightmare wrapped across your chest?

                    I chased away your nightmares when we two
                    were children of a foe made placable at nightmare cost.
                    Infusions of no lesser love may save you now,
                    consulting demons, seeking something lost.


 
Copyright © 1999 Miryam Ehrlich Williamson. All rights reserved.

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