To my mother and to the mothers of all the girls in my life

Footnote on Childhood

by Celeste Zeta Montalban

Coveting some pies the child

Climbed on Mother's cupboard

When eight

Broke the vase, one day in June.

Whip was raised awakening pain

Deeper than the fragile skin.

Many glasses

Are broken in youth

The ego needs a constant

Restructuring.

Bits of glass pieces

Remind wounded conscience

Some instances of an imbedded

Piece in stubborn bare feet

A hurricane somewhere is

Badly needed to siphon

Off permanent tortures.

Hurts in youth

Should be constantly guarded

For saneness in the old.

from An Isolation/Poems

Pic from mudspice.wordpress.com

The Travelers

Tired, the travelers
They walk and walk
They never stop.
No matter how
They trod on mud
There is not one
Footprint.
Soleprint.
Of muddied sand
Of muddied banks
Time has become tortured hush
So fast, so incredibly fast
No space is left
For wailing
For weeping
For unloving
Even languid feelings
Should be cast to die
By the wayside where
The wayfarer casts
Innocent shadows on
The lonely roads
The lonely roads
They may not see again.

-Celeste Zeta Montalban
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