Poetry Thursday Vol. 2

Landfill Womb
Dead weight makes me a mother, and I carry it like a limb

It will not be amputated because it is more of a living thing
than I, though I coil beneath like a body with post-mortem spring.
My landfill womb believed the myth that there would be spring.
It dredged brackish depths for the black faith to walk that limb
and froze waiting in winter, writhing into stillness like a made thing.
I cradle death like a baby— so quiet! hardly murmurs a thing!
It is from me, from my grave, from my breast’s parched spring.
Dead, but heavy, poised without moving a single frozen limb.
Limbs are but things. Most things die without the spring.
by BRIANA M. FONTE / contributing writer

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s