NaPoWriMo #15

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


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