The claybed

Or A baby pathogen

The first bog bore our feast
in the shapes of our young faces
laid down on the thirsty dirt
which sucked the last of us up
through its poring sputum holed
in the sprouts of syrup from our frames.
Our children the sugars for plenty,
the mired digestion their only parent
like them too saddled in sweating soil
to stand on their legs above each other
as snails to the sea, foil to the burn.
In the putrefaction of their childhood
rose the layers of men and women,
each firstborn, each gestated from the ground,
halved in pieces, arm to crooked arm,
filmy as the blinded sky overhead
which shook them even as it slept.
They swam for life as the bog curled
over with its heat as some of it
boiled off, and swimming they breathed,
they vaulted over the nerves of fog
calling each their alien name,
one fearful for the reach of another
mere inches in the dark from each other.
It was hot then, where their knees
dipped above the chins of dead boys
who gasped so our parents could live
with a spear in hand, incisors ground,
who aspirated the first bibles
from our chests, where slept too
our parents, calm, at war, at rest.


~ by Jeremy on August 12, 2010.

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