The mama dropped the baby and its head popped off
my daughters sang and sproing the yellow flowers leapt
sprung off of their knotted stems by chubby hands.
My sister and I round each other warily, wanting
we're both wanting what sisters give each other --
we're knotted in our need and quick to pounce away.
--
My friend has a slit across the base of her throat
sutured mouth that held a gob around her thyroid
she'll be quarantined in June with a great view -
bereft of comb and rings, given pill from lead box,
recover all most certainly to tell the tale.
She and Jim talk about taste buds and salivary mist
what he misses that is never coming back --
red wine tastes worse than mud. "Like yeast?"
she asks. "Like mold." Her spouse and I
drink wine. "Another?" I offer. He says, "Yes."
2 comments:
Oh, yes, this is wonderful. I have been inside that no taste when I had pneumonia and six months after. Even chocolate tasted bad (and wine.) Poor Jim. Terrific poem. So glad you are in this with me.
thank you thank you - and I am glad too - I had to write, I knew you'd check!
Post a Comment