Her breath moves without sound
upon my restless death
ridicules the tainted tirade
of dim nights flooded by
depleted star-glimmer
over impatient ivory surf
and pretends light makes
a difference to me.
I am more alive behind
closed lids, chastised -
pressing soul and chalice
to my unheard heart
than if rekindled by her
scavenger's low tide
that mocks my empty womb.
Pamela A. Lamppa
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