Mine, the mother lode
under broken finger nails.
Scrub-brush bristle rasps
silver-blue embedded cracks;
thinned skin, scrubbed red
of the bloodied coal.
Sputtered flicker flames,
snatch catch paper twists,
as the dust choke rises.
Clogging fog
in every pore,
every breath.
Strapped close for warmth
for life, for reality;
premature flutterbye movement,
her, against my chest.
Hearts beat together
in long, lank, dank
afternoons of winter.
She reminds me, along with
first silk-milk smell seeping,
overlaid with Johnsons Soap;
feeding time.
When the black grate
gives up its feeble furnace,
we will, my sweet girl,
be still, my sweet girl,
while I sing
lullaby of love
for you, always.
04
=====================================
minor edit 12.10.10
