Sunday, 14 December 2014

The latest in the series of P. poems.

Things not meant to be:

The saddest sound
is made
when wooden lips collide
across the string divide.

Stomboli laughed
at foolish puppets
mimicking the grandest acts
of life.

Mangiafuoco was more kind;
set me free
with coins and a sad shake of his head
when he heard the tale
of two puppets kissing -
wooden lips bump
to the sound
of earth hitting a coffin lid.

When my wood turned to skin
I sought her out. 
She had been devoured by the fire;
there was nothing left
but memory: the texture
of wood on my lips –
the sound of a wooden club
as it connects to the small head
of a fur seal pup.

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