How unfortunate –
a detached fetus,
yet an unborn,
fragmented with still lukewarm
A lump like a lemon,
That greyish red tissue.
A cake marinated with cold jelly,
Your warm affection
No more into the heart.
I hold (on to) it,
Clutch our unborn
of rosy future.
A grief, that is.
Alone in the room
A dead silence
Sing with the drifted weep.
Where is the mother?
Love, “I am ill.”
I’ve been prescribed a pill to bury
do(es)n’t leave me.
The stain on your
Misty and mistaken and when
Agitate your heart
Change your dark
Room of wound
How you depart –
Mother without birth.
*Recomposed from Cut by Sylvia Plath
“To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free –“
Whispering into my wicked bones, like fairy slips through lichen and moss.
Lie on the floor awaiting to be taken,
I smiled as if this corps would be still for ever.
How free it is, I know exactly.
Yet I miss the excitement of the spring earth,
That chill of a summer refrigerator,
Calling me is the voice of a country singer.
Now that I think,
Even the odor from the back alley of Parc Avenue is somehow familiar. Not only that,
I wonder what it feels like when my son pees on my arm,
How painful it would be, to see my daughter falling on the ground,
How wonderful it is, to see an enfant growing into an adult.
And I want especially,
To hear you read Tulips to me,
So much joy awaiting,
So many miracles pounding.
That I have to wake up, into this dreamy reality.