Morning Sickness
I look down at my body and see the failure of a lifetime of withstanding screams and chastisements
From others who I am to love as I was taught.
The wrong side of the tracks never looked so good from here,
And there is a thought that comes when hugging a toilet bowl...what will the morning bring?
In the morning will I wake to see the contours shift into place,
or will I dream until one day a man of power, ruler of the world, proclaims that the meek have inherited the earth,
and on that day I will sleep no more...
Singing larks abound in the mind of unoriginal poets, and here we are in the chronic age.
Finding new buttons to push that will vaporize my enemies in an instant.
The feeding tube was replaced seconds too late, and in the morning a mother cries...
Dropping in the manifold, my eyes watering...
...feeling the hot flush and despair rips out my lungs again.
Basking in this glorious mess, tripping lavender, wasting away till the morning comes and I find you gone again...
Morning illness, to morning glory, to a mother's mourning over a daughter's story.
Dropping so slowly in that silent room, in a world grey…in a morning dead and lonely...
Copyright Adam Gaile 2012
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