fellow poet and genuine person Trish Hopkinson did some asking after our/my small thing {isacoustic*}
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this crow
with its black
worm
knows your father
feels loss
in the neck
a drop
of blood
a movie
written
for egg’s
tear
in beds
of unmade
mirror
i.
every birth
makes god
look bad
ii.
a weird
parental
iii.
(glee)
iv.
ugly / earlier
me
than most
no jump
scare
this losing
of child
to sheepish
math
how priest-like
my father is, the biter
of his own
breast, in the church
of my sister’s
bluer
moon
edited, slightly
while covering my mouth with a bruise from the robot’s vision board, I wheel our son past a group of seven men arguing the age gap between the first and last immortal and remind myself to appreciate the comic timing of those who move freely from one diaper change to the next without putting a small toe to their lips and I forgive them their privacy and their resting arms and I forgive them for believing absence is a straight line and for the one pair of clothes they don’t have to wear because god is a bad kisser and like that I am lost like no hand that’s been laid upon the chair of this frail evangelist
reflection, on: Third-Millennium Heart – poetry – Ursula Andkjær Olsen, translated by Katrine Øgaard Jensen
Third-Millennium Heart – poetry – Ursula Andkjær Olsen, translated by Katrine Øgaard Jensen
