that cry out in pain from overworking to keep her three sons fed,
and well-kept. Who of those three sons helps ease her pain,
the deflowering of her soul, each hour passing by?
Is it the eldest, who slams house doors, paints, and gets high?
Is it the older, who takes the money, Granmas car, and stays out all night?
Or the youngest, who shares her cigarettes and spends all his time writing?
But mother, she needs her medicine to keep on a fake smile
so her sons can go on asking for money, getting high, writing,
and having to put up with jokes about living with their mother.
Is it so bad, having to take care of a woman that's done enough
in her life to warrant help, in her old age? The universe doesn't
want me for an actor: Actors of the stage aren't anti-productive like me.
Dreams are made for being in the waking world, my dreams
are occupied by vegetable desires. Looks like it's my turn to cry.
Everybody in their lives has cried, in those moments
they've truly had no one; looks like my time is now.
There's a time for everything. Just as the time will pass, as will time pass
under each new morning, and every sweet dream.
Jake David is a Native American writer living on the Mohawk reservation, outside of Cornwall, ON. His work has appeared in several online webmags, including Writers' Bloc, Soundless, Otoliths, and ditch.