The mourning is
about it never being
the way I needed
it to be.
My life itself a
disturbance of mourning
Stands in my life. Before me. The
dead girl under the bed
her skin transparent as mine
disappears. I come out
and there is no mother. Sometimes
she appears and there is no telling what
attracts her warmth. Approaches and departs.
Becomes desire,
the loot of her mourning.
Empty womb pillow. I am not
enrapt. Its’ tufts flap my fringe.
Behind me, at my sides
stands mourning.
I have only to be busy with your burial.
Sharpening flint to a pillar
pile to a mound
and turn from it.
It is gone
forever.
And I am.
By Noa Vardi, M. D.
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 5:23 AM UTC
The mourning is
about it never being
the way I needed
it to be.
My life itself a
disturbance of mourning
Stands in my life. Before me. The
dead girl under the bed
her skin transparent as mine
disappears. I come out
and there is no mother. Sometimes
she appears and there is no telling what
attracts her warmth. Approaches and departs.
Becomes desire,
the loot of her mourning.
Empty womb pillow. I am not
enrapt. Its’ tufts flap my fringe.
Behind me, at my sides
stands mourning.
I have only to be busy with your burial.
Sharpening flint to a pillar
pile to a mound
and turn from it.
It is gone
forever.
And I am.
By Noa Vardi, M. D.
