Saturday, March 28, 2015

Burnt pudding

A horse in a womb somewhere
grows, suspended in pink light
and another, birthed, into a field
is spooked and gallops away
from a bag blowing across the earth

But I, I am pouring my sadness
into the pudding, stirring the creamy
white, stirring in my sadness
I want you to eat it I want
you to know what this
feels like

Last night's dreams I was driving a blue
convertible through I should have known
what was coming: today my sadness would burn
the pudding and we are having
to start from scratch again

This pudding for your birthday
will take all day-- that is what
sadness can do to time--
stretch it out in strands of ache
A woman can temporarily ruin, have to
start up all over again,
stir the second batch, pray over
milk wont burn this time, this time
she'll leave sadness
out of the pudding she will
brush her teeth and be able to speak
and the horse galloping will
come to a stop-- no longer afraid
of a bag, or of anything

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