THE SADNESS (version 1)
It weighs heavy 

like a ripe fruit,

round, approximate, 

giving no implication of the so-called joys

within. Though plump

with life's juice, life's continuance, 

no one can see the miseries, the sorrow

I contain; How can 

so many be so blind to it?

How could the other women

have forgotten? Instead

I receive canned responses.

The harvest will rot, dry—roasted

by the early autumn sun.

What will we come to bare

when we no longer have an heirloom in the earth

to pass down? What


I am red, flushed

with blooming,

but I find no place for

my seed to grow.