And there's a light to dawn on the edge of the cliff
On the slim alley driving south, into the sea…
She grasps her bosom whilst in pain
Her black curls ravished by the breeze
And salted by a wave deranged, she cries
Fearing this is the edge of dying,
Fearing she might be sliding on a spiral steep.
Her womb is coming off and bursting
Beneath the sky's display of morning colors
Beneath the seedy breakfast it implies.
She's giving birth humming Schubert throughout
To trick sorrow into self-pity,
One hand leaning against a dry tree,
The other one luring her suckling out -
Her spawn, she knows it's there to steal her air and undergarments…
Nonetheless, a mother is a manor cold,
Her chimneys feeding a fire too thin
For the hunting to stall
Once the riffle starts shooting.
There is no escape from her ivy,
Just tentacles stretching to linger on,
Seeming to fail,
But the offspring always forgets its aid kit behind.
She still has that pillow crammed in her entrails
And secretly misses the man of the forest
The man who was ignorant of words but wise to allusions,
The man who lulled her in his hut for an hour or so
And did not deliver a sigh.
She's afraid the hunters will come through the mud
With tartan hats and wood pipes, not to mention their guns
And the old weepers with seafood and rocks in their pockets,
And there's no door to claim manners behind.
She feeds the child emerged from her smolder,
But her milk is too sour, it thickens its blood.
The men have arrived along with the ladies
They all hum Schubert and narrow their compass around her,
Their hands swelling like those in cartoons.
This is a bad dream, she just wished to drain
Some bit of elseness to her girly amusement,
But failed to consider the bloodshed and lullabies.
The child blubbers no more, it simply craves for a baptism
Missing the sea, how awkward, the never acquainted sea…
That will have to wait, though -
The earth is full of ravens that must be kept away from the crops
Fingers will always be needed to build rows of scarecrows
In so rugged a land that delivers no mother-tongue.
The pain is soothed; she slips in her crimson
Now, there's nothing but silence, no one but seagulls to dream of.
R. Mutt 2017
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