Kristy Mitchell

I take your root into my womb
Our sediment mires,
A kind of organic cement
Within which we are only
Facsimiles of our habitat.
This love is full of cracks,
Of worms who take effortlessly
To the musk of mortification.


I thought that I could become you,
A comorbid debutante,
The spirit of suspension
Freed from vulnerability
In the acquisition of your tenets.
I swing for limb to limb
A ghastly simian bride
With nothing to do
But hold out for
Your seasonal charms.


The river does not rise,
I drown nevertheless
For want of orientation
To burn the cradle
Where I’ve slept and cried
Is an idealistic goal
But euphemism rarely
Spares its beneficiary offense.
Of your body I could shape
So many stakes on which to
Impale myself,
There are so many ways
To die when life is the basis.


For Fairytale Prompt

15 responses to “Cradle

  1. This was most interesting Yves, I learnt a new word, ‘comorbid’ plus my mind at the end of the poem went to Edwin Brock’s Five Ways to Kill a Man. Life sometimes can be unfair in what it dishes up to us. But we hang in there believing tomorrow may bring improvement.

  2. “This love is full of cracks / of worms who take effortlessly / to the musk of mortification”
    Fantastic lines, Yves. One of the many things I love about your poetry is that I always stumble over a new word – today it was comorbid.

  3. Sometimes your works leave me speechless – but in a good way – needing time to think – and this one of those times, Yves – so I’ll just say: 🙂

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