Monday, September 24, 2012

Poem for Monday, September 24, 2012


Fetal

in this manner, the cold needling my bare back, you will find me
excavating her image. Squeezing a pillow for equilibrium and
she appears, apparitional. Let me tell you how to feed your heart

by the spoonful, she whispers. Let me tell you how ghosts taste
the wine we cannot drink. How I, with Japanese hands, have
repaired all of your torn sutures between breezes in the syrupy

nights, painstakingly. Do not cover yourself, then. Let your bones
breathe in the afternoon lull. Before you awake, what is most
tragic will be irradiated: the broken-winged crow in the morning

sky. The blood taunting the veins so hollow. The words that
could have saved us swallowed down with Sunday's breakfast.
You will not have me unless you shiver and sweat a minimum
of five drops. I am inflexible on this matter. I take one of your
eyelashes along with my sorrow.

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