Can’t
Speak
Blinds of
darkness pulled lower each day
over
contrast of home and here.
The
duplicity of dark, and white
snow on hood
and scarf
through
which I cannot speak
my name,
name unknown in country, nor continent,
except working
husband, his days with the bi-lingual,
while I
push a buggy up and down white/brown streets.
A doctor,
a doctor, my breasts swell, mastitis,
my babe
unfed, cries within her bundling, I
weep.
My scarf
freezes.
On a bench,
I rock myself, remembering home.
Finland
1989
Karen Bissenden
KL
Bissenden writes a newspaper column and has been published in anthologies
of non-fiction, fiction and poetry. She won the Joyce Dunn prize for
non-fiction and the M. Manson award, for combining verse and multi-media after
which she attended the University of Victoria, for creative writing.
Tags:
Poetry