The Russians love their babies too. Looking into their eyes. Smelling their hair. Caressing their cheeks. My cheeks are cold. It happens. Inhaling chilling thoughts of gaping wounds. Endless fears til death do us part. Reverting to diapers in search of a crib. A building on fire, turning flesh into meat. Babies.
The time is once again a song of hope. It happens. A dirty glass. A broken umbrella. A literary letter. But I won’t let that be the nail. There’s always another bottle. Another love affair. Another way out. I’m that clever after all. I can afford to be. I’m a sheepskin coat in the middle of a summer storm. Babies.
The flag catches my eye. They all have blue. Why can’t we see we’re all the same. It happens. Tears of clear rainbows. Teeth cracking like it’s the 4th of July. Painful bones that keep us up every winter feeling night. But the babies.
What does it all mean at the end of our days? Beyond the bed of needles. The airplane flights. The cold dead hands. Is it worth it? Coins falling from our pockets. Pork belly at our backs. It’s about the babies.
He said it would be forever. He promised. But promises are laughing buddhas. He said I was safe. He crossed his heart. But crosses don’t get to vote. Oh I wish he had never said anything. A mime with quiet gestures for my amusement. It happens. Babies happen.
I’m such a trigger. Smelling of powder and sparks. He says I’m beautiful. Oh please don’t say anymore. Let armpits and whispers follow me to bed. Let there be peace for Russian babies. Our babies.
Let our acts follow us off the stage. Let the singing cry from our fingernails, scratching at the dirt, draw open the bridge, till all the flags become white, turning the ground to rubber.
It happens. Hope chasing the sun across the yard to remember where we came from. Bones aching as the cold sets in. The room’s too small for shared breaths. Where have our babies gone?
No one sits at the living room table. No one joins in on a bottle. No one comments about the art. It happens. Words that snap. Sorrow in our puffy eyes. Stitches removed before the wound is healed. It happens again. And again. And again. And again.
The time is once again a song of hope. It happens. A dirty glass. A broken umbrella. A literary letter. But I won’t let that be the nail. There’s always another bottle. Another love affair. Another way out. I’m that clever after all. I can afford to be. I’m a sheepskin coat in the middle of a summer storm. Babies.
The flag catches my eye. They all have blue. Why can’t we see we’re all the same. It happens. Tears of clear rainbows. Teeth cracking like it’s the 4th of July. Painful bones that keep us up every winter feeling night. But the babies.
What does it all mean at the end of our days? Beyond the bed of needles. The airplane flights. The cold dead hands. Is it worth it? Coins falling from our pockets. Pork belly at our backs. It’s about the babies.
He said it would be forever. He promised. But promises are laughing buddhas. He said I was safe. He crossed his heart. But crosses don’t get to vote. Oh I wish he had never said anything. A mime with quiet gestures for my amusement. It happens. Babies happen.
I’m such a trigger. Smelling of powder and sparks. He says I’m beautiful. Oh please don’t say anymore. Let armpits and whispers follow me to bed. Let there be peace for Russian babies. Our babies.
Let our acts follow us off the stage. Let the singing cry from our fingernails, scratching at the dirt, draw open the bridge, till all the flags become white, turning the ground to rubber.
It happens. Hope chasing the sun across the yard to remember where we came from. Bones aching as the cold sets in. The room’s too small for shared breaths. Where have our babies gone?
No one sits at the living room table. No one joins in on a bottle. No one comments about the art. It happens. Words that snap. Sorrow in our puffy eyes. Stitches removed before the wound is healed. It happens again. And again. And again. And again.
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