Monday, April 26, 2021

napwrimo day no. 23


In the beginning, there was scarcely room for birds or children or even love.

                The ghosts took up too much room, walking the floors and knocking

                                        into tables.  We'd take turns opening our mouths and the creatures

would fly out single file. The doubt we harbored in the belly, so far down, 

                       but the doubt persisted. As children, my sister and I would whisper between

                                        us in the bed. Draw sticks from each other's closed fists.  This one,

the man with the magnificent house.  This one the penniless artist. 

                       The babies, fat-cheeked in the bassinet. Cupboard full of dresses

                                    and a kitchen full of cakes.  But the body would scarce produce.

Sheeted in the attic, dusty as a field.  The woman with the crystal ball and the son 

                    with a limp held my hand in the dark and forecasted a passel of squalling infants. 

                                    Sill, when they arrived, a surprise, each one. Plucked from the wraiths

                                                    in the cellar.  Each one prettier, but far angrier than the last.

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