17

immured

 

I thought the addition would be
simple     an expansion of my horizon
a release from captivity

just open the walls

the first bones were grey and smooth
a pleasant handful of wood     they
clinked and echoed     melodious

I thought they were beautiful

then my fingers crushed her ribcage
it broke with brittle sighs     disturbed
dust escaped in sad billows

I kept reaching
I kept pulling     until

I was mother and child
murmuring     winding the sheet
she was a prodigal daughter

hidden in the walls

 

 

contemporary american voices — april 2010

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2 thoughts on “17

  1. The trees worry me –
    what space there is, where your words dance and make images – my whole being breathe with your images and words and photos
    this is not a place for business

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