deepundergroundpoetry.com
Berceuse Reflection
In her rusted Ford Fiesta
she plays her favourite songs
(loud and painfully)
and remembers.
Her blooded knuckles
forgot
how to take a breath,
gorging on the choking-hearted
screams of distant babies.
Queasy thoughts
release her guts
before she wets her throat.
I'm coralled
by another's loss
and digital rain
from a child's toy, I switch
it to the sea and gulls.
I can almost smell the breeze,
but I've forgotten how.
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