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The trouble with poems, I think,
is they each demand a meaning,
like children screaming for food and drink.
I dress them all up prettily
in fine words, and watch them preening,
scheming at what they’re meant to be.
How am I to know? Not enough
that I’ve borne them. The ungrateful
brats want values and stuff
like all their playmates have. But still
I’ve learned, and know that ones so hateful
ought not survive. That's why I kill....
(A 'light hearted' explanation to those who have been kind enough to ask where the other poems are....)
Flora Gillingham
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