My tiny body (D&E)

Stephen M. James — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 00:26:25 +0000

I’ll never be half a football field of nerves,
just a cell for a season’s-”“in a cell,
a miniature galaxyÂ pregnant with possibility,
an alien with big black eyes watching
for the vacuum,Â of space taking is notÂ my home.
I, being of sound mind and not much say, leave my few feeble cells to
my mother: my last testament toÂ fight off disease for decades.

Flushed at this funeral, a little red-faced and now wasted:
somatic septic cells in fetal position rowing, thenÂ wading through fecal
mix in matters (too private to halt) with dioxins to incinerate lungsÂ of pets and
pets that are childrenÂ and yes, even, children, butÂ that wouldn’t be green.
Pieces: umbilical, ambivalent, paraxial, personal, particles,
a gorey inconvenient truth, a choice warming in an all too earthen oven,
too full for responsibility to try ‘n muster the strength to alter a sound to see
my tiny body.

June Widow (after Saving Private Ryan)

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

If I pick her, she will be torn,
beautiful flowers, back over the pond, in a vase,
the French countryside–I’ve seen her wear it on Sundays,
the place we met–the demolished cafes–sans the coffee;
we share memory of mothers with the crash of cannons,
beyond the river where red was roses and Revlon
and knee cuts on the playground,
we left our school-teaching-selves:
like the rubble above our brothers
that collapsed our bridge home.

the poetry knook :: the poetry of stephen m. james :: indianapolis, indiana » mother

My tiny body (D&E)

June Widow (after Saving Private Ryan)