Barley fields…

There will be times,
when mothers shall kill their children,
for breakfast,
with long statements
about short shelf-life dairy products,
aged in old casks soaked
of cheap bourbon…
My mother did just that
one selfish morning,
with wings wide open of bats
long dried under suns
never known unto the sons of men…
My father,
the very next one,
took the bait
and left himself standing alone,
on the other side of strange fields
of barley moons…
 

Towels never dry
in kitchens burning incense
to foreign gods…