19 November 2008

david oprava

david oprava

There is a whimper
from the room next door,
speedy breathing slowed
with the gentle hand
come running,

soothing then smoothing
the matted hair of a child
saved from whatever hides
in the closet or under
the bed, daddy goes

back to his room, no one
to save him from what's
inside his head.
Mummy's slumber deep
and clean, whilst he moves

thoughts around his mind
in a bored game that never
ends, can't be won,
and ultimately undone by
the descent into tossing,

turning, restless burning
of notions tainted by
the undertow of late.
Morning comes with bleating
cries and charged children

who flail the routine of oatmeal,
toast, clothes, and school
as the nest deflates
and he's left to face the seeds
sown and grown

through the night, never
meaning them to see
the light as he showers,
exploring his body to find
their new tattoos, thoughts

don't ever die, they just hide.
In the kitchen, he looks for a knife.

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