Midnight sounds conduct a chilly
concert. She contributes,
penning her last-ever poem
to me. With a maudlin, sorry
syntax to her pithy prose
and blatant disregard for rhyme or meter,
she leaves me with a note of nonsense:
“Never stop
believing.”
(as if I were the one
who’d demanded something proven).
At six thirty-three in the morning
the phone is introduction for my husband,
who recites his worst-ever poem
to me. With the dull, trite
phrasing of an amateur’s voice
and a disgraceful lack of metaphor,
he softly speaks his piece:
“She’s not
alive.”
(as if swerving round the word
would keep me from the crash).
Five months the untapped tears collect
as mother's milk for our babe,
becoming my best-ever poem
to him. With a helpless, hungry
latch on my swollen breast
and certain mindful meditation,
his eyes and ears receive my verse:
“Oh, how mamma
loves.”
(as if all emotion lay cocooned
in chrysalis, and he born of the
butterfly).
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