Tuesday, May 4, 2010
May 2 Your Milk
Tears that all but bathe the floor
Of the shattered cathedral while distant
Mortars tell the true mood and
Occasional spurts of coded noise
Like tapping-rapping on the edge of the hills.
Shrouded aunts and stumbling nieces, cousins
In the absence of any true masculinity,
Just stoic little boys,
Whose fingertips flicker and twitch.
The cloying scent of broken incense
Brought out of stowage for instances like these.
Moments that mounted and could
Be counted on lists posted for the fearful to read
While one high pitched wail above all,
Pleading and starving for what can’t be had
Nor replaced and has now gone to waste:
Your warm blue milk.