Right in the Middle

For three thousands years I’m waiting mother
to get out from the night to hear stars blood
gurgling on the neck of old uncorked pitchers
I never cut the throat of a black young rooster
I never fed on tender wheat ears milk
my feet are maimed by splinters
from a withered oak stump
stones were breaking when I jabbed the axe into it

I’m pregnant with twin teardrops mother
I have swallowed the handkerchief
at my father’s funeral
I must deliver and be born
someone has to cut this Gordian knot
with a hot knife
washed in white lye
.
.

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Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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