My poems need
a change. I can hear
them in the other room.
I robe up and slipper
down the hall and their cries
only amplify as I enter
the nursery to
their cacophony of
screams and sputters.
Moonlight knives through
the blinds, slicing across
neutral yellow walls. I'll leave
the lights off, for my
little darlings await, row
after row. I should feed
them too. I sigh—
so many blessings.
So.
Many.
Blessings.
And like any self-
respecting poet, I go
from crib to crib and
smother them, each
and every one,
with a pillow.
1 comments:
i love this one, the end is sort of unexpected but very satisfying in an oddly cynical way.
also, don't take this the wrong way (some would), i had this very tim burton film look in my mind while reading this.
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