7,614 Readings | 5 Ratings

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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