Rachel and Mother Speak Their Lines
drop down through me darkly, lash my winds to
your breast, swaddle my singed urge for
endlessness, Blind Mother who stumbles over my ransomed pulse.
Rachel, I stagger through trembling grades of your silence,
weave torn time with your spent breath;
stay etched, child, on my yellow-edge days.
Sky Daughter, you are stranded in my sleep,
your hundredth year, my mirrored touch.
my wild offense, my dying.
Rob and I confess our thirsty tongues
race towards the dirt. Rachel,
our gray rage follows you
down into the cellar where your yellow eyes
darken. We scoop marrow
from your whitened
bones, turn your fated mirror
so Rob and I can outline
the white scars in each other’s eyes.
I swell, Rachel ferments
I confide to Rachel, dark
oozing twin and daughter,
loudly crumpled charred
“you’re so carefully dead”.
I let loose your nervous bones, with charity
carve desire in your small footprints.
I chew on sweating marrow—
bloodless Rachel, my propped up ally,
swallows toxic dirt that cradles you.
My shovel aches for your ashes, roams the vacant playground.
I unmask young darkness crouching,
brief Rachel, careless
deep in our slippery burrow.
I tightly drape you in my lament, trade
your ruin for how I yearn.
Cindy Savett is the author of Child in the Road, a full-length collection of poems, and three chapbooks: Battle for the Metal Kiss, The Story of My Eyes, and Rachel: in the temporary mist of prayer. She teaches poetry workshops to inpatients in several psychiatric institutions in the Philadelphia area.