JUNE 29, 2012 - Poem

JUNE 29, 2012
for m.a.

Your first twenty four
days are like an aqueous

dream. You sleep
and forget the smell of home.

Mother’s sweat
soaks the towels. Ice cubes

clank in a glass of water. Your
fingers are cold. They are too

cold for this summer drought. Ants
dismantle a dried cicada. Only

orange eyes roll
on the balcony. Your sweet

gray teethmarks
ghostly haunt Mother’s

breasts. They are soft
and plump with milk.

Bottles line a childless home.