I haven't cried in three days. The napkin-white petals,
an Alyssum White blanket of snow,
piebalded by Slipper Orchids,
flows beneath my skin
as if it were the thinnest layer of water
under oil.
The feeling is the consistency of pungent Valerian,
the active ingredient the smell
of well-matured cheese,
cuts the tops off mountains
as it fills the bottoms of canyons
with asphalt.
It's given a brain back to this anencephaly.
Where there were stitched lips,
now only paper-heart kisses.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
I haven't cried in three days. The napkin-white petals,
an Alyssum White blanket of snow,
piebalded by Slipper Orchids,
flows beneath my skin
as if it were the thinnest layer of water
under oil.
The feeling is the consistency of pungent Valerian,
the active ingredient the smell
of well-matured cheese,
cuts the tops off mountains
as it fills the bottoms of canyons
with asphalt.
It's given a brain back to this anencephaly.
Where there were stitched lips,
now only paper-heart kisses.
Request permission to use this poem