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.
https://photos.smugmug.com/Archaeology/Archaeological-Imagination/i-QzKX383/0/ecfa1e6b/S/Memento-Mori003-Edit-2-S.jpg
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