the women on my street are worn out
inside out, there is breakage of flesh
and gathering of old, shriveled roses
at their doors but I cannot tell why
these are the women of my street
too proud to ask for a hand with the laundry
or an ear for the language lesson
they rather burn the cake than bake slowly
I watch them move and hear them sink
it is the wearing of these tongues, sharp and pointy
that keeps the women faithful
to the talk and wears the rest, gradually.
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