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Can't Speak




 
Can’t Speak
 

Blinds of darkness pulled lower each day

over contrast of home and here.

The duplicity of dark, and white

snow on hood and scarf

through which I cannot speak

my name, name unknown in country, nor continent,

except working husband, his days with the bi-lingual,

while I push a buggy up and down white/brown streets.

A doctor, a doctor, my breasts swell, mastitis,

my babe unfed, cries  within her bundling, I weep.

My scarf freezes.

On a bench, I rock myself, remembering home.

 

Finland

1989

 

 

Karen Bissenden

  

KL Bissenden writes a newspaper column and has been published in anthologies of  non-fiction, fiction and poetry. She won the Joyce Dunn prize for non-fiction and the M. Manson award, for combining verse and multi-media after which she attended the University of Victoria, for creative writing.

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