The Death

Once

I heard a sound

from you

it sounded like a hurt dove

I felt ugly

And so I turned

and I welcomed the death

and the crying bed

and all of the

things I thought I could fix


I listened to the little heartbeat

the pulse

of my child’s finger

I whispered things

I don’t remember now

I captured the beaten, pulpy, disregard of it all

in a clean cloth

and then set it free

I remember that day


I spoke to the branches

and to the wind

and to the mosaic tile

I tried to create
It went unnoticed

It got swept away

 

by things I can’t put names to
torture tools of

the unbeknownst

 

be present

I still cringe

and I still wonder…

I had to scratch it out,

black it out

and then write it all down again.

2 thoughts on “The Death

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