WILD
With a Connemara kind
Of wildness
That intimidated
My timidity
His was an open
Tumult of a space
Mine a pent up
Cul-de-sac
He despised
The snobbery of my breeding
I bore the scar of it
And for all of that
We are born
Of Mothers stretching
To make ends meet
Struggling with loss
Sometimes victorious