Gulf War And Child: A Curse - Poem by Annie Finch
He is sleeping, his fingers curled,
his belly pooled open, his legs gathered,
still in their bent blossom victory.
I couldn't speak of 'war' (though we all do),
if I were still the woman who gave birth to you
soft-footed, with your empty hand and calling heart,
that border of new clues. May the hard birth
our two heartbeats unfurled for two nights
that lasted as long as this war make all sands rage,
until the mouth of war drops its cup, this bleeding gift we poured.
Comments about Gulf War And Child: A Curse by Annie Finch
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- IfRudyard Kipling
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- TelevisionRoald Dahl