christina's world receives the last
of the lamp light and there is
a foul taste of unslept
breath in my mouth and clinging to
my tongue
my mother's name is christina
sometimes I think that's why she
likes Wyeth. I wish I would of
know him and christina. Without
her face she's beautiful.
She's tragic and I want to weep
that painting is a print bought
years ago, matted and framed
by my mother I think.
In all the times we've fled
our different lives it has been shaken
but never broken. Even dropped from
time to time and worn by boys
and weekend war. And dodging lotion
bottles. My mother's name is christina
I like the way her
world looks.