She is some less each day.
She is always, yet never
Where I think
I don't know what to call her anymore.
How do you name the dark?
Sound out the space between
Flesh and full-bodied silence?
Mother ash undone universe
Breathe into me—
(Just one more time)
But how does one plead with a ghost?
How dare I ask for some
More.
She was every imaginable sun,
Forging heart and all
Two hundred and six bones
Deep inside her womb.
"There will be stars over the place forever;"
And I—I must flare my own
Bright kindness now.
*Line 1 from Sara Teasdale's poem "There will be stars."
*First published in NVCC Fresh Ink 2023.
YOU ARE READING
Prickmedainty Poetry
PoetryFor all those who broke their glass slipper and still search for stars in the shards.
