#afterbirth
A field hand birth in sandal feet
The afterbirth is ocean skies
She braces sternum abreast to me
The golden wheat and flies
Worms slither laced living
Within her locks
The holy realm
Her hips
A pelvis snapped will drool more blood
Than a thousand razored wrists
I supped of tears
I cupped
I drank
I grinned a hacksaw’s gleam
I undress myself
Till I am only bone
And bathe in sewer’s stream
Dream not of drunk
Dream just this birth
The golden wheat and flies
My daughter birthed from crumbling womb
Beneath these ocean skies
Ah
If only I had some blade
To cut her cord to she
I suppose the only shears I have
Are my spit shined pointed teeth
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
and all the other here afters; for all are an
aftershock, a stunned embrace emotion to
a trauma, that stuns us into a overwhelming silence, when words fail, for they are but a tool, not always handy…in fact, sometimes the hands, their warmth, the slow squeeze of supportive strength, is the most
uncommon elegance
humans ever devised
After all, when all is said,
that shard of a touching outstanding
will
survive longest in the tracks
and crevices of
our fingerling cells, handy
and purposed for those flawed deposits
that are always kept best within
our safest harbors of valued,
touches,
ready to be recalled
and better yet, perfected, when
shared
Oct 25, 2024
Oct 25, 2024 at 12:20 AM UTC
Nest of sweet smelling branches.
Testimony of three suns.
Phoenix from the ash.
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 4:18 PM UTC