A new poem, finally. Well I've been sick... and stuff.
I Borrowed a Dream to Tell You This
I gave birth in a library
smell of dried worms in the stacks
in between Harding and Pierce
old webs to wipe up the afterbirth
ribbons of pink and black
my baby scuttled away before I could Christen him
before I could put him to my breast
and make him human
now I will crawl after him forever
a poor thing of words and bones
smelling of burnt hair
bleating like a little goat
like a tiny angry baby goat
skating on the ice and falling
and falling again against
your hot white shins
-------------
Thanks to my friend Kerry for the goat.
3 comments:
You know what I love? That you're a psychotherapist AND a poet. I've found that many poets are a) psychotherapists b) poets and c)in need of clinical examination.
I'm very excited that you're a & b.
Oh, and love the recent poems!
Hi Amanda! Good to hear from you. Yes, I am A and B, although much less so a therapist than in the past. I haven't technically therapized anyone since 2005. Although I have poeticized people.
Gabriel-- welcome, and thanks so much for the detailed comment. You're right, words and bones is awfully easy.
I included the your at the end to refer to the you in the title -- the audience of the poem. Hmmm. I'm not sure if I wanted parody -- I'll have to look at that.
Humm... have you poeticized people on a couch? Sorry Christine, had to ask. I think there is a poem lurking somwhere there ;)
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