April 11, 2009

• Miscarriage: To a Lost Journal

  It was written during
  the November of my infirmary
  a swirl of near death
  and morphine laden dreams.

  I had traveled down the Mother Road
  stumbling on broken cement
  and misspent gravel
  as weeds grew over the eyes
  and out of tthe nostrils
  of zombie like doctors
  with their mute nurses that
  listed down grassy hallways.

  My Pakistani lover was recalled
  and lost again even as
  his curried mouth blazed
  and retreated on my
  sickly white skin,
  and the red barn where we made  love
  was burning.

  In one poem, I had become
  a statue, moss covered,
  anchored to a desk as
  my body turned to stone and wood.

  I mused over the toss and turn
  of a friend’s body over mine
  and the curve of her delicate hips
  as they rocked  with abandon.

  I know its somewhere in this house
  beneath a couch,
  in a pile of unopened mail,
  in a shelf between a Bible and
  a dictionary, or perhaps
  sentient with my hallucinations
  it has vanished
  choosing death over existence
  because it hurts too much to live.

  
   

  • 11:26 am
  • 1 Comment