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“Mama’s little baby
Loves shortnin’, shortnin’,
Mama’s little baby
Loves shortnin’ bread”
Starting at the beginning,
Making and baking,
Life in a recipe.
Dropping half a cup of butter
Churned like a stomach.
Not a baby unless from a
Green mother.
But dark storm clouds
Circle tightly and the sun shining
Is only a legend.
Finding a second chance
To make a first depression
As ink-stained fingers
Search for blood-stained sheets
Streaking black and red
Lines like poetry of
Darkened cafes and
Deeper clichés.
Butter squeezing through fingers
Oozing infection as
Blue, green, brown, red eyes
Gaze without seeing
And the lies the mind tells
Are the most blinding.

But then the sugar – brown – quarter cup
And into every rain a little
Sweet must fall.
Crystallized and sliding in to
Fill the cracks where the
Gray holds sway.
Eye backs welded shut,
Self protection through
Double padlocked, home monitored
Insecurity with the
Alarm sounding and you’ve
Forgotten the deactivation key –
If you ever knew it –
Hidden like the Holy Grail.
But the sugar finds its way,
As a little light makes
The darkness darker
And the gray draws all
Colour in, sucking life
From the marrow of cracked
Earth bones – teeth marks
Scraping across your spine
Until even standing is pushing
And no sugar could taste as sweet.

“Mama’s little baby
Loves shortnin’ bread”
One cup of flour mixed in slowly,
Peeling back your skin
Revealing muscles and tendons,
Blood of gods and monsters
Streaming past teeth of stone.
Not human
Because human means
Electric probes under
Finger nails as nerve endings
Intentionally burned,
One at a time until charred
To a fine point
And slid into an oven,
450 degrees,
Turned right until facing left,
Muscles gone, organs
Rendered to coal and wet, sticky
Memories of feeling –
Except the heart,
Held safe under lock box
Knowing that one thing keeps
Us human.
Intellect is defined,
Physicality is transitory,
But love
Beats like a drum from the
Heart of the earth.
We stretch across the
World, torn open and bleeding
To the rhythm of bird song
And chalkboards
And plates shifting
And minds shifting
And hope that tomorrow
Will bring love.
“Mama’s little baby

By Rpriske


About poetreecreations

I am an author writer publisher web administrator I run poetry workshops in the community. My published Manners childrens poetry book can be found at

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