Where the beds were crawling
soaked and furious with
nappy
newborn hair, sickness
too---the old fan
came around and turned his
blades
laundering the air.
She was there
and kin to the rice fields
toiling in contractions
from summer fires
and remembers nothing
not even the nurse
with the nameless hands.
Some beds keep crawling
later
when the porcelain tub was
flooding
plugged with soap and tears
and mother's blue eyes, too.
The girl will die
a child-woman, wife and
soldier
and refugee born mother
sheltering silence for you,
my daughter,
sleep Guineviere
No comments:
Post a Comment