And Spin

She was always too innocent –
pious in place – spinning a thin
yarn out of love songs of Ovid
& my over thumbed amorets –

she plagiarized The Art of Love
& broke its spine – antagonised
with folding outs – not discreet
openings & seen one too many

times in public places – a pudor
& then her flighty generations –
Then my exile to an empty bed
where ill sleep is tidal unrests –

here my rolling hull lies broken –
split under my lip-stained sheet
of blank verse –  of bare rhymes
& her hard done lip-sync of lies

She never ‘got’ books or poetry
citing her childhood anxieties –
but she could quote her mother
who had helped her spell spindle

& other such troublesome words
stitched together to form her lies
She will pass on her art & craft to
to her graceless daughter – & spin