Six Weeks Early

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Pink roses soften the pungency of this
sterile room. The IV above your head is
an endless current, an extended vein,
as this child is an extension of you.

The round clock above the door watches you
sleep off exhaustion, in an ivory gown
tied in five vertical bows against a spine,
sore from a thick gauge. You stir in sleep,

expose a thigh. Outside the door, hallways
are a lucid river. Long, not narrow, metal clutter
sticking to edges, the way this child’s baby
hair, still damp, sticks to his temples.

Outside these walls, the moonlight mingles
with the streetlamps, an occasional star stirring
from behind a cloud. I sit and wait, here
with you, until the sun births a pink and even sky.

He is in a room, above you, in a clear warm box,
clear as glass, as your IV, a pair of dreamy eyes.
Tubes emerge from inside him, and the monitor
beeps, reading aloud his little body’s words. 


Theme Showcase!

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I am so excited to have my blog featured in elmastudio‘s Theme Showcase!  I chose the Kiore Moana theme because of its elegant design featuring a main page with no side bar, so I could focus mostly on content.  I think using this theme has helped me blog more often, because I concentrate more on my posts, than on building the sidebar content that usually distracted me and was always left unfinished.

Their theme collection is a true example that design goes beyond the visual.  There is purpose and function, and that is part of the elegance.  Thank you elmastudio!


How to see clearly

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Sometimes, in the middle of the night
when the moon slips between my clean sheets,
I see your face, thin, filmy as clouds.

For a moment, you hover over
me, smog suffocating a city,
and I long to retract back into

a world devoid of you. But I am
paralyzed, as your cold body slams
above mine, those eyes, blank, heavy, no

remorse. Soon as it begins it ends.
Memory cascades my brain, blinding
like cataracts. Close my eyes to see.


Morning Song

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Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
by Sylvia Plath