Friday, November 7

Memento Mori

I remember your black, your small darlings,
Soft, how soft, and gentle in distant hours
Buttons adjusted, bibs aligned, fingers
Comb posthumous hair, preen the feathers of
Wee birds in the nestles of weeping arms

Artful dodgers, cold as clay, or the
Porcelain destitution of a warm thing, once.
Sought succor against your stiffening spine,
Requited the anguish with repelled caress
Fought terror, felt it everywhere, waned lovely thing

Babes in veils, stolid next to the others, mothers
Forcing mirth, shuddering other-birthed, trying
Every hair-tickled breath not to whimper, breathe
. . . hues of truth hide, though what
Twinkly gray shades show, the moribund decries.

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