Quietly Dysfunctional
Mother did not bake apple pies,
but she drank strong cider,
which baked her brains.
Dad had a sharp tongue,
he picked his teeth
with its forked tip.
We were a one child family,
there was a miscarriage.
I recall we butchered the stork.
Mother roasted it,
for us all
that Christmas.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
