You were born in a long month of rain,
a low ceiling of cloud, the outside world
drumming its fingers on the window pane,

during this second month, that mid May cold
has given way to clammy, sweaty nights,
you’re in the bedroom, breathing heavy, sprawled

across the fleece. Outside, the erring light
marks the surrender of relentless day,
your mewling sleep is anything but tight,

through a thin crack in the door I spy
on you, make sure your insatiable breath
is confirmed for my patriarchal eye.

I’ve never known a fear like this. I’m blessed.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jun 14, 2012 @ 23:40:07

    The first stanza sounded like the start of a novel.
    Beyond that, I enjoyed your use of words in this poem.
    Erring, Clammy, Sprawled, Relentless, Mewling, Insatiable, Patriarchal…
    words that convey texture and feeling.


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