The poem that is mother and child
Nevertheless, a poem is a poem, it works
itself into the ears of a six-month-old like
wild geese following the softest parts of
their bodies, heading home with a focus
his eyes crinkled tight, concentrating on
a gleaming flashback of prior births, also
on warm swollen breasts of new mother
tiny hands disappearing into their fullness
her heart brimming over with every single
tear that drops on his cheek, inviting her
into the poems that form like an ache, he
yawns, stretches or twitches in a wrinkled
skin, tiniest movements entry points into
raw verse, crinkled eyes older than the old
witness to perfect paradigm of being alive
an orchestra of the sky whispers invincible
marginalia of light into his unwieldy torso
he squints back at the moon, its stumbling
streaks falling upon her braided bun, erect
cross legged, she gathers her mood and his
puckered lips, sipping at warm water, taste
of rust, as it infuses senses, fennel, & cumin
***
before death
curled caterpillar
the quivering ocean between us
solitary star
you trace maps on a moonless sky
delirious morning
unwrapping one flattened breast
waning moon
dissipating seconds in final breaths
dragonfly
a buzzing congregation of mourners
mourning doves
the trembling voice of goodbyes
***
Field notes
behind bars
the immigration officer
a screeching bat
waxing moon
patterned shadows
on your face
in obeisance
folding my back
ancestral voices
punctured sky
our statistics buried
in perfect shrouds
***
These are exquisite!
ReplyDeletethank you
DeleteExqusite profound poems
ReplyDelete