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Click hereShe was never meant to murmur
glad tidings of life into Mary’s ear;
neither line up, stamped, impassive,
one of a gross of gold-colored look-alikes
pincushioned in a thin display
at the check-out
destined to guard your car
or glint from the shoulder of the WalMart clerk.
Nor was she popped from a mold in China, product of some wide-eyed kid’s attempt to supplement family income,
wrapped in an AirPak and
flown
over the earth
so another wide-eyed kid could wire her,
fish-hook fashion,
onto the real tree Dad and Uncle cut down.
It is not in her to
smile
a wavy dot-tipped line
from a handpainted wooden plaque for sale on eBay
whose maker’s friends say
is adorable.
Holding one knee,
she balances
in a place we bury more deeply
than a risky flirt at work
on a stone headboard
in the intimate spot
that lovers don’t touch—
the lightless retreat we all have but
don’t speak:
the wound that gushed,
ebbed to a saline trickle,
laved to a
permanent
basalt
ache.
She waits.
I’ll hold my son again.
I loved this when I saw it with the illustration in Tzara's challenge thread. Even though I looked in Google for The Stevenson Memorial it didn't tell me anything so I'm in the dark as to why you chose the title. Even severed from the beautiful image the poem holds up well. My only beef - and it's a nit-picky one - is with the word "lightless".
Well writen!
Tess
Beautiful .. thankyou so much. I can't write about what is right and wrong in poetry I just know what touches my heart ..