She’s buried, hidden, hide-and-don’t-seek
pressed by the muffling mattresses and
soft feather beds that forget but she’s
small and insistent, the knot in my neck of mourning
dreams, of half-eaten marzipan passions
lying, dormant, shell shocked under strata
she is buried, alive
tiny seed of kicking life poking into my slumbering spine.
© 2008 Amoret BriarRose. All rights reserved.