Childhood Wakes - Poem by Donna Ialongo
on pacing through the sculptured room
and drifting to his puddy-chiseled face,
being half of the conventional wet embrace,
my thoughts dug for other tombs.
my dearest sister of, you're wimpering he looks so well.
his powdered joints invite worms already started
long before his lips and eyes last parted.
for what charity will your soul sell?
a rosary lies tarnished among his hands
each unpolished stone left forty years unturned,
each rock buildling a soul that never learned
to love depthless seas as well as stagnant lands.
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