For Lolit...

poverty is like a thorn
inside your throat, and most
often this thorn
blocks the smooth flow
of food inside
your stomach,
you bleed to
death and your husband
who asks for donations
to buy your coffin
like Moses goes up
the Mount Moria and
prays there
he is seen by the neighbor
and he is described as
a cross of the new
Calvary
on that gray morning
when the fog still hangs
itself
in suicide position

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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