Christopher Davis



From the Lawn Around Her Urn

Mother, unloved, drunk on Comfort,
twirling sadly to your favorite hymn,
your body, a mudslide of cookies, leaves
and tears, demanding I enter you, die,

may I ape that grinning innocent
mowing down green blades, re-
leasing the fragrance of wild onions,
mosquitoes humming near his loins?

I slap this ear.
I shouldn't feel
your tick, earth
angel, inside.

Look away.
Look away.

 

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