- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Fathers Lament
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An angel in the book of life wrote down my baby's birth,
then whispered as she closed the book,
"Too beautiful for this Earth"
three nights past the new moon
blood worms spawn
slither free from mangrove silt
float to the surface
mating ritual consummated
they sacrifice themselves
to feed the fish
so the next generation may live.
three nights past the full moon
you sacrifice yourself
push and breathe
float to the surface of a dreams reality
cradle your swollen belly where she kicked
so close now
push that last push
the cries are the cries of silence
screaming an echo of tinnitus
she is still as a porcelain doll
limp
one arm malformed
skin see through white
she is handed between the family
so she may live in our hearts
three nights past the full moon somehow
nature got it wrong
- COMMENTS
erectus123almost 9 years agoFather's (possessive) unless you are referring to more that one father
AMoveableBeastalmost 9 years agoPowerful and wrenching.
Unapologetically true. My favorite kind of writing.
Anonymousalmost 9 years agoThe story here is what happens in the space of a moon cycle. That can make for a poem that is balanced and cohesive as well as shocking. Most important (for me) is the shift from expectation and the birthing struggle to great horror and sadness. That really shakes me as a reader. And for that reason I would lose that first section and put more hope into the poem up to "push that last push."
To me, if you keep that first section as is, it is kind of like telling how the story ends before it begins. And while the worm metaphor works in some ways, it doesn't do anything additional to support the theme of sacrifice. I'm assuming the family did not know about the baby's condition in advance, so (if that's true) there was a huge crash from joy to sorrow. That's what I see in the poem. I may be totally off, and if so well it wouldn't be the first time!
Of course I gave it a 5 because it's such good writing: but I think you can make it a 10. <3
legerdemeralmost 9 years agoA heart-wrenching, kick in the gut poem that builds towards the lines "the cries are the cries of silence/screaming an echo of tinnitus/she is still as a porcelain doll." I've been thinking about it and coming back to it since I first read it. It reminds me of walking inside old churches and cathedrals, unable to avoid stepping on the graves of those buried there.
I'm afraid I am unable to say more about it - there but for the grace of luck go all parents...
