Skip to content

Log Out

×

Poetry

is holy, molten in its calcium
cup, sun and moon mixed, hot
in its prison, cells’
incentive to fuse firing, no
second to loiter, calling
now to a predator’s jaw. How
the genetic vow is kept.
Jellied not-yet,
hard as thought becoming
belief, little o
in hope or love, un-
umbilical one, cast into air,
mother gone, father
long gone, uh-huh goes your
heart, that dummy yes said from
a soul agog at such splendor.

Image depends on its subscribers and supporters. Join the conversation and make a contribution today.

+ Click here to make a donation.

+ Click here to subscribe to Image.


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

Related Poetry

The Daughter I Don’t Have

By

Lisa Dordal

Quiet Times

By

Anton Schlösser

Snow in Hartford, CT

By

Kai-Lilly Karpman

Half Like Them

By

Roxane Beth Johnson

Receive ImageUpdate, our free weekly newsletter featuring the best from Image and the world of arts & faith

* indicates required