Untitled 30
I portray the mother of dust:
the rattle in our empty nest,
echoing, echoing like the bray
that escapes the moon at noon,
the shrieks from soft white rooms.
These unhatched eggs cry,
crawling to my windows,
peeping in, trying to frost
each dirty sheet of glass
with their shallow dirty breaths.
Is there humanity in this reflection?
I am a factory assembling
cadavers: cold glassy eyed dolls
all wearing the same vacant faces:
blurred, blurred, and terrible.
Their little fingers stain the walls
like the pages of blank novels.
I try to hold them. They go.
They let me go, for now.
I don't fear the darkness anymore,
but it is their tongues of silence
that leave me unhinged.
Remembering is to ache
like a shadow. Mother
mothering dirt, a stranger to health.
My cramping hands pray and
hope my past can eat itself.
Copyright © Daniel Dixon | Year Posted 2013
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