Your mothers silken womb attended spiders
with wifeliness the underbelly wasted
with stretch marks: etherized contorted ceilings
collapsing. Thunder delivered bodies
of basilisk-children in amniotic
sacs clinging to the pelvis statically
(We dreamt of ducklings stored in pickle jars
in over-the-counter pharmacies nightmared).
Alba, the Occitan daybreak swallowed
away shadows. We built an obelisk
to form her spine, hoarfrost to glove her bones.
We dug the cemetery eyes concave;
the aviary heart with a complex
Cornell could sympathize. The paperweight
childs breath diffuses, dancing though the air
with the dead sound on the final stroke of nine.















Comments
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Join us or our sister club *ProsePlease. Also, watch ~LITplease for fun joint activities!
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"When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace." - Jimi Hendrix
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Join us or our sister club *ProsePlease. Also, watch ~LITplease for fun joint activities!
as far as the last line, I would say, it doesn't work at least where matter is concerned, only because there's no indication of time anywhere else in the piece (other than daybreak) and what is 'dead sound?' That in itself is a poem! The line, audibly, still has a ring of finality that the poem deserves. Perhaps just a couple word choices is all.
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"But true expression, like th' unchanging sun,
clears and improves whate'er it shines upon,
it gilds all objects, but it alters none."
~Pope
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