Monday, September 15, 2014

Sixty-Second Beginning: Ribs

I stand
Antecoarctate, shivering,
My father's ribs broken, bloody on
My feet, 
A lumpy road to walk.

My mother moans,
Scrambling to reshape
The cage of him, mourning,
As the air congeals the stickiness
On my skin.

He looks away,
He would have saved the world
If I had not broken


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