AS I WRITE Poem by Jane Gibian

My mother told me always
keep your own bank account —
I called it my running away
account — I can't stand
his footsteps in the house
as I work; I have to walk
out into the fields where
ghosts from the goldmine shafts
hover amongst the weeds —
back then I was stronger;
with my first I went into labour
on the mountain slope,
and finished rounding up
the cattle — but he's very good,
gets his own breakfast
and all — yet sometimes
I can't breathe when his
thoughts drift through me
as I write —