Sunday, July 27, 2014

Raised from the dead

She feels for the gap between my ribs
for a breath, she feels for the flesh- alive
her hands, my mother caress my head, curl my hair
and wail, she wails me, a bird nursed back from death 
raised by Thumbelina's headscarf, she tied it first, thrice around my shoulder blades
tightening the grip in the hole winter dug,
then Thumbelina, smaller, her face white and her eyes yellow from lack of harvest
took me under her hair, sang me a lullaby to raise me again, once more from ash 
folded me carefully and presented me to my mother
her gift after long hours of winter, of a winter in the dead of June. 

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