I remember that midwife year
you found me at the factory
holding the hand of water and
making shadows for the moon.
It was the year of cakes and blood
when everything was sharp with fear
waiting to be lost or born back to me
piecemeal in a box of sand.
You had a gambler's gift for tongues; fortune
loved to ripple where you stood.
Three times I turned a rose to tears.
Three times I spat your sugar melody
on the ground. Three times I made a man
from fire to fit your form; too soon
I saw the fourth time was no good.
Now I have no dreams, just hands
on fire for the work expected by the moon,
and faces in the ash I never understood.
posted for dVerse Poets
and including words from
Images: Record Breaking Workers At The Factory ©Pavel Filanov Public Domain
Lightning and Volcano, unknown artist, via internet. Fair Use