Tuesday, April 2, 2013


I am the memory of this life,
a paper girl, thin
between the fingers, posed
in an eggshell house, yoked
to this hollow by aged
vibration, mellowed echoes
that listen for their own
forgotten footfalls,
for rustles in the space
of certain quietude.

The unborn no longer visit.
And the motion picture flesh
prints of my repeated opening
pull from the album, stretch
the stitching that binds
them to page.

Outside, rain drizzles
from funnels
to the cupped ground.
It falls again and again
even when water
heaves from Her
throat and we wait
for the emergence,
the first sign of whatever
crowns from deep within
the pelvis of Her.

At the end of a life
our bodies relent. Pages lend
pulp to the goodness
of the ground and our children
and our children's
children leave deep imprints
in the rich sated earth.

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