Cradle

Dryad

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

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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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