Hard Time Birthing Floor Blues

Chicagoland flora springs up through cracks in copper blood and marrow odors, Haymarket kielbasa and the martyrs of the yards, Delta ribshacks and Appalachian bars, ain’t too far to Memphis or Vilnius, ain’t too close to them neither. Enough to pinch the pistil of the honeysuckle and taste the same ovarian sweetness as the old dirt birthing room floors of home. Lord knows, I shoulda been gone, and I wouldn’t have been here, down on the birthing floor.

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