Wednesday, 7 May 2014

a one hundred and eighteenth poem...'swedish room'

There was a place
Beyond words
Where we met
Outside of the
World, the mess
And the clutter,
You my butter
Cup, my guts all
Churned up, I
Remember sucking on
Your breasts like a
Baby after milk, then
Lying content in the
Cradle of your
Swedish room, safe,
Warm as a child basking in
A new womb.   

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