From an Author to Her Child
I have written a tome, a lexis
to define this vocabulary of pain,
and with the aged leather of my palms
I have bound the words and held them near,
as swaddled infants
in the darkness,
where comfort and clarity
has borne witness to the gilt
that edges each page,
and the font has faded
from nights of restless fingering:
your lip at my breast,
the curve of an ear,
a lock of ebony.
But memories refuse to fade.
They seep, instead, like ink,
into the ridges of my fingertips
where text does grief no justice.
Tagged: Literature, Poem, Poetic, Poetry, Writing