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Accident

It was spring
the day I galloped
from my mother’s wound.
I was an accident, she said.
but she swaddled me in trinkets anyway.

In the maternity ward,
where she mused over her flaccid belly,
stitched lovingly tight like a football,
she happed to glance out the window

where a strolling couple paused
and embraced on the park’s path.
Hand in hand, the lovers passed.
That was an accident, too.

Submitted: Saturday, October 25, 2008


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Comments about this poem (Disappearance by Caroline Misner )

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  • Fay Slimm (10/25/2008 2:24:00 PM)

    Beautifully poetic Caroline - your choice of phrases is so good. I love the opening of you 'galloping from your mother; s wound' - excellent read. Greetings from Fay.

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