His legs crossed, taste of apple burns my tongue
There for a crisp moment, then gone. Then gone.
Etchings: his face like a testimony
to devotion, carved by a love years past.
A great toothy fear who I know; knows me.
Who knows the shortcuts to my gut, deep, there
beside my liver, or something just as
rich and dark and pregnant. I know it, well.
Why can't I exist eternally in the arms of my mother?
Swathed in dappled light. Meanwhile the sun flares, hard, on the man.
Merlot, Rhiannon
YOU ARE READING
how to build a home
Poetrylove, motherhood, possessing a father, picking up the pieces. [poetry] {RM 2023-2024}
