In the old days when ladies drew their brows
with burnt twigs
much could not be discussed
but behind closed doors.
Where mothers were busy coming out to work,
their gentle hands against
the bad times of too many children,
some of them still in drool,
the oldest ones with faces as wizened as their mothers’,
with an insatiable appetite for attention.
But when it never comes
or it comes much later,
in the shadow of nights pounded by rain -
the imprint of another set of hands
will rust a frame not yet like her mother’s.

In the old days when grandmothers taught their daughters
how to step out with immaculate brows
they also cautioned their granddaughters
how vanity skips a generation.
If I am, your mother is not.
So your daughter will not suffer too.
The folks then were simple.
Seeing no hedonistic wont.
Hearing nothing of hedonistic claims.
Speaking nothing of it.

The heron is a kind bird.
Dreaming of it implies the ability
To explore the unconscious.
Living as one awakes that sleep
Into a remarkable rage.