My Wild Child


My wild child retreats to the safety of the treetops, refusing to return to my heart.
No. She is adamant, pointing at the sneaky snakes in my tummy winding their shame around the prickly angst and the darkly repressed anger.
Soap bubbles, she instructs, get in there and clear out all that muck.
They are delicate as gentle laughter washing me clean with a tenderness that surprises me.

Amy Mongie