Confluence by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press
Miscarriage at Capital Library
A small playhouse
was built, in the garden
for firefly nights and long ceremonies
of homesteading and mothering—
for color wheels and vespertine
making long shadows of umbilical
that were unnoticeably thread-bare.
I did not know I am dangerous. I am a
brand new venus flytrap.
Casting spells among volumes, three
behind my spine
I feed my children with my own blood
collected in the hem of my skirt
divining the loss of Goose eggs
fallen into the cold nests of carnivorous
found like some token within the shelf
of chained books.
I am viperous. I am a dewed Devil
trumpet consuming my seeds.
Rosary peas, dropped from bell
fall into my mouth and hands,
twisted with infant swaddlings and wet
with poison, the fabric is caught on my
barbed wire leg brace,
cutting the pages of folk remedies
that line my hospital room.
I am a flowering hemlock, stamped
onto essays on fertility rituals.