Who Is Your MotherThere is no tired like new-mother,fernknits
brand-new mother exhausted.
Sleep a while; please sleep a while.
I tuck your arms into soft fleece, mark the 'O'
of your tiny mouth as I do it, crook you
in one elbow. We are surely alone, and slip
into dreams, you and this woman
who is your mother, drowning together
in pillows, bed-sheets, down.
There is no fear like new-mother,
groggy, incision-pain, narcotic-haze,
frantic new-mother terror. Sleep
a while; please sleep a while.
My heart lurches -- stops -- breaks.
I jolt across the bed, scanning
your tiny face for breathing signs,
a twitch, a sigh. We are still alone
and when you move, I crook you back
into my elbow. Sleep a while.
of the ground-freudenschade
It was Sunday night when Geo climbed into my room from the fire escape. I was painting my toenails and listening to the sounds of the city: police sirens, pulsating bass, the kids in my tenement running guitar riffs back and forth with the street musicians on the sidewalk. That was the year I turned sixteen and took a two-month vow of silence to honor the death of autumn. A premature snow had robbed the season of its delicate warmth and color, forcing the maples to weep their leaves into the gutters. All that rainwater, all that decay. How could anyone create when October was dying outside their windows? Pete and Jake practiced acoustic that entire month. The rest of us were too fragile to play in suicide weather, when the right chords might move us to open our veins.
Geo sat down next to me, examining my bottle of red lacquer. "'To Eros is Human,'" he read, and rolled his eyes. "I'll keep that in mind."
I offered him my shoebox of nail polish. He selected a purple the color of opium
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awakeMelpyra
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
Favourite genre of music: Alternative rock and metalcore|
Favourite style of art: Photography
Operating System: Window
MP3 player of choice: iPod(c) and Zune HD
Personal Quote: All those feelings, those yesterday's feelings will all be lost in time.