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Chemical
August 2, 2012
Oh,
here she comes again
that bird who reprimands me
in the dark
tallons claw at my stomach
etching in the gospel according to mark;
She’s buried
underneath fall’s forgotten,
rotten leaves
huddled in their mass graves
of concrete
To everyone they are dead
—but they are not dead to me.
Cancer of the throat;
cells multiplied from the gloat
and now she cannot sing
but sits and stares, stares, stares
through a torn bastard wing
where the hell do you come from?
I do not pity you,
I didn’t ask for your wedding ring
or is this all deja-vu?
© Chris C., Milford, CT
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