Mooncalf
Stilts balanced by the fear of falling.
Afterbirth and straw. Inside out.
A mix of skin and string.
Pulled out like the tide,
a mess of purple tubes
and slime-life.
Your eyes as round as earths.
You try to eat the night air
then seek the primary. Milkmouth.
Born under a stone eye.
Special and disjointed.
You are not white enough
to be dry bone,
rather hopeless pearl
as the full moon sags.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2015
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