Two Poems by Spencer Lewin

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

cold wombs

you once said that the blue

at the bottom of the flame

meant something calm.

for me,

to remember you,

is to be unborn.

in our old room -

spotted red walls,

cheap sicilian rugs,

neverending quiet.


the owls are weeping.

open wounds

scurrying around the room,

sleepy little eyes,

so shirtless and brave,

you had such sad hair.

your heart spun a careful web:

my hands had the tremors

of a faithless saint,

my spine was a seizure

of dead nerves,

my mouth was full

of secret knives.

that waspy hole that parted us,

the dry stream.

i could fill it with the blood

of one morning.


© 2012 – 2013, Metazen.

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