*Winner of the Rose Nurnberg award for poetry
I've seen the pictures of your failed birth,
your doll's body a rusty blush,
the color of dried blood.
I've stood on your grave,
a ridiculous kind of underground
fort for you to sleep in.
When I imagine you in Heaven,
sitting on Christ's lap
and surrounded by singing angels,
you are always blind and mute.
Your fetal eyes are like those
of deep-sea anglers:
existent, but invisible,
hidden behind fused spectacles of skin.
They follow your silent mouth
as it gapes open, fish-like,
your heard turning sharply from side to side.
And you resemble a guppy,
trying to swallow the angels' lullabies
which float down around you
in little flakes.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment