At last

This entry is part 4 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2014-15

the child grows up and learns the word for what was done to her

the marks she gouged into the wood of the window-frame are found

the tongue that boiled for hours in the pot has softened

the pale nubs on the underside are stripped away

the wound is white and seamed where blade met skin

the sheets are bleached and hanging on the line

the ghosts are dead that have no place to go

the cabinet that smells of mothballs gives up

the letter that piece by piece retrieves the history

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← In the grey sky, a blue wound:Something takes a few steps and stops →

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