Sunday, July 7, 2013

nausea: a love child

sometimes i find myself so sad
that my gut wants to meet up
with the bottom of the toilet bowl

that's not legitimate poetry
but it would take a fourth marriage
to keep my words from ending up bastards

i am the kind of mother who will love
them like all the rest. even tell them stories
about how their father was some dark hero

smudged on the page between my cheek
and whatever juice I'd heaved
from my sad, sad stomach

and our love would be a melancholy
baptism. he, the inky savior, and this poem
an illicit sacrament.

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