My Pain is Not a Garden

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My new poem, My Pain is Not a Garden, was just published in “A River of Milk”, Issue 1: Sylvia. My work featured along Sylvia Plath’s – a deep honour!


My Pain is Not a Garden

 

I live, I do not yet live

planets write our demise

as the soft spring buds grow

but my pain is not a garden

and how fast it turns

 

And if I was supported the way

ancient earth holds its flowers

or clouds cling to the mountain

because her mammoth secrets

need protection, the raging

clash of parts inside

me waiting for the answer

might need it no more

 

I hear a child shriek and

ghosts fill the world,

an old forgotten schoolyard at dawn,

the sounds of becoming, mothers and

children, half-eaten sandwiches and mayo

dripping on linoleum floors in procession

to war-green garbage cans, cookies

and milk, stories and hugs

under the covers just past bedtime

 

I thought I would be living this twice.

 I thought I would be living this twice.

 

Every time an ambulance wails outside

I wonder who is leaving and who will

take their place, and how they

will get here and for whom

I wonder if my belly knows

more than I do or if waiting is           

over

 

I saved up

learning like crinkled unused coupons hopefully stacked,

unbelieving of skin in my skin,

bone in my bones.

 

I can feel her anyway, growing

inside me, a tiny-breasted elfling

with my eyes and tufts of hair

asking me to hold her in her finite

solitude

 

I’m Mother Mountain and she’s not a secret

any more than the buds

will stop coming in spring.

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