Thursday 10 August 2017

by Miriam O'Neal

Green as moss under the pines on Beaver Dam Brook,
clear as a spring that feeds a bog, we married for love.

All that day the clouds played havoc with the light,
blew a tune out of a brown jug— like the Gurnet on foggy nights.

One shoulder tucked against my ribs the sudden pop
as of champagne uncorked; lips milk blistered,

slack in sleep, you dreamed your way to me. Here, take my glass
heart, before the shadows spread like owls’ wings.

He loved me. He couldn’t forget he ever said that.

Blue baby. Red too. He saved you; cord around your neck like kite string
Nurse, there’s something wrong here.

Pelvic bones shifted like tectonic plates
to sieve you into this world—
Here. I give you this.

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