[M] Whirda's Poetry & Prose

[PepsiWhirda]

The Metallurgist’s Child

Where in the cupboard she likely lingers still,
behind noisy doors that once held back horses
and held in a mother who knotted her apron
until it was small, and she, forgetful,
I dream standing upright of a metallurgist’s child,
learning to sinter her silver ghosts
and reciting psalms she conjures from memory
to fall, as mercury,
drop
by
drop
into dream.

Come back to me with lips of molten lead;
lure me in with the viral romance
of nape-neck kisses and white collar crime,
and if I swoon standing near enough the ledge
that the leering storm cracks once its whip
and drags my cornstalk heart to wilting,
be fearful not of the rain, darling,
for you were always a husk yourself,
crinkling sun-crisp, with smoke
at your edges and soot in your eyes.

Just be thankful our end has symmetry.