The Womb

Take it all down:
the calendar, the clock,
the curio shelf — picture of your ma.

Take down those greazy sconces
and those framed flights
of your pigeoned eye.

Take down the best of your days
and your rage — your rage.
Tear down the sheetrock.

Punch out all those cagey studs
with a sledge — strip out the wire
and sell it for scrap.

Now stand there, bare before the borderlands
— the edge. Step out, into the hands
of your mother lying there more barren

than bleak, more vista than vain.
Take down the rain in your mouth and drown —
drown in the plaint she sang before there was breath.

Image: Quino Al on Unsplash

My response to dVerse Poets Pub Poetics: Edges and Fringes. Thank you, Lisa for hosting. Your urging gave precisely what this poem needed — that Edge.

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