Poetry / Writing

Day 33 of 35

This morning he keeps me hushed in drifted cotton–
the windows sealed,the birds at bay–
and he asks about the dream, the furrow in my brow.
I tell him of the apocalypse I can never stop
and of the python that strangles the mallard duck
on a pond in a park a mile from where I was born.
I tell him how my mother’s hand feels in mine,
how she does not tell me to look away.

One thought on “Day 33 of 35

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