Conor O

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Cé tú féin?

 

Pitter patter

and the sound of hurt beneath,

a careless scattering of seed;

his infidelity, her neat distress,

betrays the calmly folded lines

of her embroidered cotton dress.


Only this bolt of fear,

a shuddering release of breath


and in moments, 

soft, pink skin,

another world of niggling demands, 

(thinks he, of him)


Vulnerable,

buoyantly alive,

until the slowly stated absence 

of his origin,

the stuttered growl

he briefly knew

commands him

to reject his mother's breast

and begin her suffering anew