“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
(S)he
She has not looked at her nails
in over a month
except in rude irritation
for snags.
Out of the corner
of her eye-
She is spooked
by a haggard figure
staring at her
in the mirror
on the far wall.
She can taste her own breath
and wonders briefly-
what or when was the last thing
she ate?
She scavenges frantically
for anything
quick and small
in the kitchen-
but first does the dishes
and takes the trash-
and gets the phone-
She makes promises
and hurries about.
She feels a draft-and then-
wraps her robe tight.
She makes sure-
She makes good-
She hopes she makes it-
She is needed
to make sure-
She is not wrapped
too tight-
She forgot to check
if she was still breathing,
since swaddling
now causes SIDS-
and the mirror is
opaque and dusty.
Image of painting by JoaquĆn Sorolla c. 1895[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Tres (trace)
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
No comments:
Post a Comment