She picked the comb up from the table,
She held it to her throat
And reminisced that midnight fable
The one with the small rowing boat,

Filled with family members, four
Who rowed and rowed with all their might
Until the heavens began to pour
Yet, still they rowed into the night.

They rowed until their hands were blistered,
Their skin raw, red; Their knuckles white.
They rowed until their wrists were twisted
Yet, felt naught but old ‘household’ fright.

Though hours, days, maybe years
went by, there was simply silence.
As if they’d all had punctured ears
But that’s too sweet to be the instance.

The truth it seems, is they’d had no practice
Their brains were worn by domestic negligence 
And though there’s nothing physical; fact is:
I’ve been sculpted by my bloodline’s silence. 

…She took her mothers comb and pushed,
How light and feathery she felt.
Fluttering towards a long lost light
A butterfly with wings of felt.