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The Promise

 

Let me make this perfectly clear: the iron is leaving my
body. The calcium, the heat. The organs like cold compresses.
Her own, smaller body inside my own is jarring, moving
against bone and blood. It pains, and yet it tells me
she is still breathing. The flowers are blooming again.
A night owl hoots. Stop signs. One of these days, she
will come like a small uproar, a bursting of crows
from a field, that mass of black earth against all that
grain. I lie waiting, jarring, like the field.

 

August 2014_Poem 3_The Promise

 

August 3, 2014, MLT

 

 

Published inBlogging & PoemsMy PoemsMy Writing Challenges

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