7,718 Readings

Brood


See the twin integers of shared genetics, tulips
                  hemorrhaging          new sounds—
You must come see the equinox                     in their reserve,
their cries                           are retention ponds.
          Be enamored                               in a room
stocked with plush            mobiles, drywall painted

neutral, infants monitoring            examine the bluff
of genuineness in your face.       I must replace myself
to be       considered                           a whole, to be continued
as a shelf            of unread books. I refuse to be
a veneer panel                      playing oak.           Stop asking
                                   when will you get _____ and have _____?

Low and behold, I am a prime number            playing possum.
                    Holster the theater            of tender screech—
a tiny         obligation spitting up,       stitched to my arm-cradle
while the parents discuss fine dining.                 I wrote this poem
as a shudder.      I rode this poem right
into a slaughterhouse squealing          first a spouse, then a space.
Posted 01/29/11
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