I suppose I was expectant. Now
here is my stillborn.
Oh, he breathed on my neck
for a moment or two. Now,
this room swings with silence.
Beyond, rain echoes on the pavement frypan,
burning my feet until I return
to the room that boils like a pot of blood.
Guns are not warm, I am sure of that.
Yet such places steal your skin in shreds,
and cup them in their hands.
I am pink as a frankfurt,
dripping with batter and simple to peel.
Will I never cool?
Even the dribbling salt will not comply.
And then I must wait,
to be sent away.
written: Wednesday 22nd November 2006, 11:32pm
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125,020 Literary Works • 672,861 Reviews
I like it. A lot. Though I don't think for a moment that I know what it's about. I love the line "I am pink as a frankfurt," and also the "rain echoes on the pavement frypan" bit. I love the whole thing. The stillborn in the beginning caught my attention, made me keep reading. The last three stanzas seemed to connect with each other more than with the first stanza, which seemed a little isolated... maybe the culinary metaphor could extend to that, too? I'm not sure how, though. Anyway, really nice job with this.
yay liz! you have returned!
although, i'm not really sure what you are saying here. it seems like a poem only you truly know, but it's something i still like to read.
you're such a pretty poet.