I started this poem yesterday using NaPoWriMo‘s prompt for Day 14. I finished this poem this morning.
Amanda and the Ghost
What is it? Is someone there?
A breeze is blowing the breath of summer
across my bed my body bare my baby
inching towards birth cell by cell.
Was there a sound? A something?
It is me only me just passing
through the walls.
I’ve forgotten what I was seeking.
I miss speaking you cannot hear me.
I haven’t been heard in 130 years.
Before this complex of bodies,
there was a home not very grand
but lovely and mine for ten years mine.
I was dreaming I haven’t dreamt in a year.
Snow blossoms fell from trees
sweeping across me and sticking
a fragile, fluttering dress as the sky
undulated in waves of orange, pink, and green.
Then I was holding a guitar
in the shape of a baby singing
as tears glittered down my face.
Then something some sound I woke up.
I never saw them grow my five
little ones crawling and pounding up stairs.
I was bleeding and screaming
my sixth one pushing out
forgetting to draw breath.
I breathed ragged nightmares
going on and on and on
then a cool, dark silence.
I forgot a long time.
My feet are swelling twelve months
on them rushing across pavement and earth up stages
singing till my lungs hurt holding
fans till my arms ached taking it all in.
I don’t know if I know how to rest
if I know how to shape a life after nine months growing.
I remembered the shape of feet,
and I roamed then
through the years that crumbled my house.
I feel little still mildly curious
you looked so beautiful sleeping eyelids
like little butterflies face glowing in the dark-light
like the little carved ivory angel
from my life a dressing-table.
Now I cannot sleep grab my phone
check Twitter and all the asking and receiving
connections made on digital miracles,
a wonder we no longer see it.
I would sigh if I could breathe.
I wish you could talk to me or see
your blood is singing melodies
I’ve long forgotten to need.
© 2015 by Robin A. Sams