The Sonogram
In the sonogram, found at the bottom of the stairs, our hands look like smudged snow.
But in my mother’s room, Mica wore one crumpled wing where my fingers grew.
His melted softly in the dark with my mother,
And I was born leaving, folding my hands into wings for ever.
The snow came always after that, falling even into my sleep.
Until I found the locked attic, where all the shorn wings I reached for in the dark were.
With Mica’s hands, I buried them in the snow.
And mother, for ever asleep at the bottom of the stairs, filled all the empty rooms.
(Anna Morrison)
Very good. That image...standing at the top of the stairs looking down- it stuck with me. So dreamlike. You seem to write a lot about empty rooms and what fills them. The stanzas (rooms) in this poem are very empty still, physically. But, then again, they are so full of strings asking to be pulled.
ReplyDeletei fall deeper into that dream-scape with every poem of yours i read. its startling and misty and wonderful.
ReplyDelete-asia