Sunday, August 11, 2013

Foetus ~ James McLaughlin




There are places where my mind
simply refuses to go.
A place of intimacy and correction:
a sullen unnurtured child
that stands beside me always.
A locked box.
A concrete sarcophagus.
A cist in the lens of completion.

It formed long ago - perhaps
in childhood - or in the unformed foetus -
in that egg the turned unwanted
in that sage saline liquid
that coil of blood and hope that
gasped a breathed nicotine

It holds me – still
always a little way off -
always a just at arms length -
always almost there.

Now it
Turns stoically.  
From closed doors -
from broken dreams.
from life itself.

Always seeking sanctuary -
walking through woods in summer
along river banks
through ancient tunnels to nowhere
always always alone.



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