She stands in the middle of the garden,
Clothed in shades of illness.
Subtle serpents obscure her vision.
Her husband walks towards her,
Trailing his roots, rich in life.
He offers her the beautiful fruit
Of his family.
She snatches it with a snarl,
Devours his history in one gulp,
Then vomits the mass over the raw earth.
Her memories emit a gas
That burns the remains.
He hesitates, reaches down,
And she swoons,
I am dying,
And he saves her,
not honor thy mother and father
Thou shall cut thy roots,
And cleave only to me.
She rips a thorn from a flower,
Her offering from a bloody hand,
And he severs each root.
All of them - they howl in pain.
He reaches down,
But the subtle serpents
Slither into his ears,
And all he hears
Is the chant ofFalse herstory
Brief Bio – I find that training for marathons is an ideal time for rearranging all those words in my mind into poetic thoughts and stories.