borne in death

if I die tonight,
my wounds and scars would rot
with me, surely
I would carry no uncured aches
into the life rich soil, but the world’s pain
and the world’s misery
would find more space to own
in the empty cage of my ribs
and the sunken bags of my eye,
for they would not leave me be, even
if I die tonight.


the grief of Sarai

she sits quiet
by the stairway,
half green
half in chains,
full of pain. the

metal cold mermaids
stuck on poles that
flag her stairway offer
no comfort; the wedding
of trees that shade

her from the dying
soulful notes of an
evening sun hold no

reprieve. her pain
of unended weeping
that linger long after
tears are dried up are
almost drowned

by pesty squawks
of river gulls
fighting to be heard
over rail porters
crawling across the river,

so much that she manages a smile
at the number of simple
children gaping at the old man
mime poised like a page off an
old worn gazette,

almost, but her bosom mourns
without the strength of
the tireless river
drifting on without a care
for her thoughts as she sits

facing it
on the dark wooden bench
spotted with fairer drops
from lazy grey birds
that seem to fly nowhere

like her pain
that only sleep
held promise for.