Maybe the poppies, so credibly orange and famished red, signal the child, urging her eat the fruit within reach, not necessarily the ripest, signposts of the planet’s collusion to fade memories of stars, wars, lovers and lakes traversed prior to this birth, city, this mother, the slats of past in place, gated, peripherally viewed like the black legs of Thoroughbreds sidling before the bell.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Transmigration (with Tania P)
Posted by Liz Brennan at 2:33 PM
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
Post a Comment