Today I Can Remember
I remember yesterday,
You became human through breakfast and poem
As if desired to be a transfused memory
Next to where I discarded you,
Unnoticed, a incomplete short story,
Some lack of narrative.
I remember the nurse,
White coat without credentials,
Red hair shampooed in stale cigarette smoke,
Clutching the clipboard of your entire heritage,
Found deliverance in the small print,
Words specify to remove any victims.
She commented on your mother’s eyes,
Eyes that stole comfort from the terrible silence
Locked away in a basement basinet.
I remember you, delicate
Wrapped in fluid before violence
Wrenched through the vacuum
Without the assistance to life
That removes mother from mouth,
A force to bring color to limbs.
You ceased before your name
No vigil or mourning hymn,
A eulogy that never existed until today.
Outside of the womb,
You borrow your brother’s smile
So big it forces eyes closed,
A sister’s laugh promenades
Echoes through empty rooms
Your mother’s steady red pen
signs your goodbye.
I remember today,
You pour from ink across
Thought to paper in some act of cul-de-sac penance
Frozen in my body as fear pours
Concrete through bone marrow cinder blocks,
I remember that today I left you at my Father’s feet,
Away from white gowned cannibals
Who feast on the science of little ones.
Copyright © Jason Johnson | Year Posted 2009
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