The Stork's Work

A poem about the inevitability of a cursed childhood.

The Stork's Work

Holly the Hock, my mouth amuck
Aghast—crane of cradles.
The stork plops me down, hefty, sudden.

Coo the kit—silent plea.
Smothered life, a life of lives.
An easier time would be had
if hands did not twist the world.

Your hand grazes the chestnut,
curls, stroking the stork’s fragile work.
The quiet is my true mother,
and I quiver beneath her.

Rock, rock, Christmas bassinette—
festive Spring sings hollow.
My omen feasts by Thirteen.

Winter, Spring, Fall, or Summer,
lavish descent, inevitable.
For death was always meant,
I married Him.