An Ode To A Lost Dream
Over the grave of my unborn child,
Carnations have bloomed,
White and red, bright-hued, glittering,
Too many of them, too crowded,
Rustling their heads, claiming their space,
All of them trying to survive,
Feeding on estranged remains of my umbilical cord,
The blood that dripped
And smeared the fetus’ body.
I am walking through the carnation garden,
Trying to ascertain which ones bloomed right over the spot,
Under which lies perfidious love,
Unkept promises, and the desperation of a lonely woman.
I cannot find it.
There are too many carnations.
Some red, some white,
Some wilting away.
I know a slice of my trauma lies underneath,
Hidden in the nutritious soil,
But I am unable to see it, to touch it.
A stormy wind howls,
The carnations begin to dance,
I am standing still,
My hair blowing backward,
My eyes filled with dust,
Still looking, still searching,
But never daring to move.
