Menu

Poetry

What offers a skeletal peep. Feather-smear,
mostly gullet—agape for the secondhand

upchuck grub, bolus crammed iridescent with
carapace and wing. A holiness, this helplessness,

the mother’s tireless, kenotic reconnaissance
ending every time with her head bent

to her nest of tidbit beggars, X-ray translucent,
the tinder of their bones radiant beneath.

All hollow. The aerate marrow, the grand
opening of brand-new guts, the gimme

litany squalling from the eternal central
yawn, the same way I wake each morning

crumpled and ravenous, limbs stilted
as puppetry, to light like an afterbirth,

wondering if the soul’s a vestigial investment.
If the sky—bloodshot, placental—

is beginning or ending. What might fall, when
I wail, from above toward my wide-open mouth.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

Again to Port Soderick

By

Robert Cording

image of dusk and people holding three white balloons in the darkness by trees, the balloons are lit up and glowing slightly, everything else in the image is bathed in shadows.

Visions of My Children

By

Davide Rondoni

Liturgy of the Hours

By

William Kelley Woolfitt

image of water droplets on a window on a greenish-looking rainy day.

We Shall Not All Sleep

By

Shane Seely

Pin It on Pinterest