At three forty something a.m
I lay beneath the horsehair blanket
of your frustration.
You trilled and sobbed kicked and grabbed your feet.
You rolled and yelled
between your fathers feigned sleep and mine.
Finally he put a hand
on your chest and said « shhh. It’s too early. Close your eyes. »
You glanced at him,
Turned your head away, bucked and wailed.
I imagined getting up, getting dressed,
and leaving the house.
I would walk, alone,
to Happy Donuts.
I would drink caffeinated coffee and eat a sugar donut
while looking out the window at the dark empty parking lot.
Then, I would walk down to the Berkeley Amtrak station.
I’d arrive just as a train pulled in, and I’d get on board.
I would ride and sleep and ride
until some place looked nice through the window,
Then I’d get off and get a job and a room to live in and start seriously working
on my great American novel.
I snapped out of it.
Who am I kidding?
It would take them three days to find me and drag me back.
Then,
You rolled towards me. Little fat hands clasped under your chin as if in prayer.
You breathed in once, deeply, beside my breast and then,
quiet.
A miracle.
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painting by G.F Marlier
PANDORA'S CUNT 
Dear Helen
I was looking around for some cunty poems and found your wonderful narratives…so existential, primal, and I love the way you puzzle words together, not to mention the reference to Babylon in all her mythic archetypal dark sizzle. Good Work!!!!!!
I find being a writer rather lonely unless I’m actually writing . Where’s the applause and kudos and unless your Robert Pinsky
J’aimeJ’aime