My father’s near a harbor confronting many wives.
He didn’t show them his demons, his infirmities,
his identification, his love.
That didn’t stop him from sleeping with them, that day;
referred but never called.
“Pick up the stones Ma”.
Blessed bastard that father beholds in his arms, her abnormalities.
Fingers like wood, skin like a gown;
a thither of the exiles, a slave to fertility.
Mother stares at the child and reaches after her;
She anoints the baby with her ointments and then she departs.
“Mother where are you going, isn’t it late?”
“I leave for the famine land;
I’m nothing but a plague near your father.
I’ve no womb, I’ve no soul; I wait for the angel of death to carry me
Away waiting… for the children of men to carry on with their lives”.
© Copyright 2016 ElijahGagne. All rights reserved.
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