Cradle

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