Good Bones BY MAGGIE SMITH

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

A Poem For My Mother When She Doesn’t Feel Beautiful

Don’t worry about your body.

It isn’t as small as it once was,
but honestly, the world
needs more of you.
You look in the mirror
like you’ve done something wrong,
but you are perfect.
Anyone who says otherwise
is telling a lie
to make you feel weak.
And you know better.
You have survived every single day
for as long as
you’ve been alive.
You could spit fire
if you wanted. 

Clementine von Radics