Child
Child
Placenta drips a slow three four
one two, under an exhaled three four
one two, and an inhaled
second let go for a second
three four, unhindered.
The mother in a bin, cumulus done,
sharp shark gills puffing out
and reading back in, an
exalted three four, to a drum,
baiting him in like kicking
against the naval one two,
commanding the rain outside
in. Smacking a smack one hundred
times three four,
on a wet pane to bring
him soft beat and mushy rice
from a small paddy on steps,
or a little office of cubes,
down in the grove of willows.
They swing with the cold gale,
but scrape up helpless as if a
cliff were giving out or crying out,
giving one to Waterhouse’s implicit,
the necessary but unfortunate.
Treble trembles under, and
a high string guts through the
man as placenta drips from his brow
and an unwieldy growth from his
belly, four four, threatens all
for the wave one two, could
take, beyond the wings
of a sprightly lemon lady.
Missing Finger
Missing Finger
I
His primary pointing finger was lost
on an otherwise pleasant day
during his fifteenth summer,
slashed by the stuttering blades of a wicked and
deceitful lawn mower that had pretended to die.
Detached and mangled digit
held in his complete left hand,
he calmly walked up to the old house
and ran the rusty tap at the back door,
letting it cough out the murky, earthy water
before washing away the blood and dirt.
Dabbing at his severed member with
the grass stained handkerchief tucked into his belt,
he quietly decided that it was beyond repair
or reattachment,
and dropped it down the open drain.
