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Ajar
by Angela CottermanSylvia's son, Nicholas, dead
by his own hand at 47--
46 years later, I imagine
his mother's words,
cold as her spring tulips
and close to the razor's edge--
"Damn you. I was through"
to the other side of the door.
Through, through, through
the worms ate Ted Hughes'
boy, a naturalist, too,
who found the brightest red.
03/24/2009 Posted on 03/24/2009
Copyright © 2024 Angela Cotterman
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Julie Adams on 03/24/09 at 02:51 PM your words are like webs of imagery, and how you string them like a kaleidescope I can't take my eye from...I love the senses you offer, the colors, the flesh, the dialogue, just omnivorous lines...a pleasure, I look forward to more, peace, ~jewels |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 03/25/09 at 01:22 AM Yes, I just read about Nicholas. Definitely ajar.. |
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