Poetry

Broken miracles

I used to mock mother for her fears.
How she laid her eyes at the gate every morning.
Waiting for a miracle without a fuss.
A miracle without the breath of a drunken bastard.
A miracle that would pat her aching back
And knead the pain all together, fold her and make her
Collapse into a peaceful trance.

A miracle without bruised breasts
Sucking back blood over the sink

I would dip into the waters, scalding my skin.
Scraping the leftovers of two lovers spitting blood
Listening for the sound after war.

When her miracle came, it was with a fuss
It was the end of a dark hole.
A bleeding man, a bruised woman.
Father had walked to a drunken death.
his patient lover casting the sentence.


A broken miracle.

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