There is always something to be made of pain. <br />Your mother knits. <br />She turns out scarves in every shade of red. <br />They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm <br />while she married over and over, taking you <br />along. How could it work, <br />when all those years she stored her widowed heart <br />as though the dead come back. <br />No wonder you are the way you are, <br />afraid of blood, your women <br />like one brick wall after another.<br /><br />Louise Glück<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-poem-10/
