A Mother Writes a Letter To An Unwanted Child
There is regret,
shelved torn fingernail.
You were smuggled away,
bound to an older bosom.
I needed to quickly name you.
The name I gave was flimsy.
You disappeared inside my eyes.
It all seems worse than wrong now.
I gave them your drowned face,
they breathed new air into it.
Dressed you to forget.
I can only see phantom clumps of you,
shreds flying in the wind
a transparent stranger.
I cannot now speak to your
namelessness.
All has gone quiet inside me.
I have been sewing tight a womb
made of long-evening shadows.
I feel less flesh confined, more porous
to the residual flavor of you.
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