Magic Carpet by Len Kuntz

You are busy eating strands of your own hair
Which hasn’t been plucked or pulled yet
But there’s still time for that
Mother’s got her bee eyes swirling again
It’s anger, not alcohol, that’s made her drunk
We can’t pick our parents, our DNA,
The same way you can’t help but look like your mother,
The woman my mother hates so much.
Step-sis, if I could I’d build you a raft fitted with oars
Send you soaring over rapids, through pitted water
Anything other than have you stay here
With a family who eats its young and
Still is never sated
But for now take this carpet
Go on grab a seat
Make it float and hover
Take it for a ride across the world

Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AND NEITHER ARE YOU out now from Unknown Press. You can also find him at

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