2nd Person, Singular

Dual typewriter, two holes in a desk
And the liquid that spills down your throat
Alone in a room with sixteen chairs
Like a mole in the pavement fearing the turn of the wheels

Voice on the phone speaking of dreams
Retreats to a murmur and violent scenes
And you wish that you could disappear
For just a moment
But the kettle calls

You

Haggard and harrowed
And blessed
To be of a mother
To be of this earth
To be among
To have the gossamer, red in your veins