Two Poems by Spencer Lewin
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.
outside,
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.
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© 2012 – 2013, Metazen.
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