Nicole Mē | Original Poetry | Original Spoken Word Poetry

When this mother was martyred she sang like this:

The children woke, perturbed - full of a feeling they could not spell.
There lay a cat, and two dogs huddled;
slim moonlight by branch way
stippled
the rigid-still domicile air.
These will always be my children by penetration and carrying;
by caring they will _ and the animals.
Now no sight of me nor smell.

While this was happening - stark and defining - I was somewhere sunny already,
with a full tray of flowers throbbing from my ribs;
in joy they say 'welcome', they say 'well done.'

I have left instructions and they will remember.

My ribs sang like a tray of flowers.