It's so cold
So cold and unreal
To sit waiting
And waiting
To take away the object
Of what was,and is
A part of you...
And me.
This form that lives
Deep within your body
A symbol
Which we are paying
The old fat woman
To murder.
Would that living mite
Which is protected
In your body
Request the fate
Such as we have decided
In our cold, respectable,
Logic?
Would it, I wonder
Prefer
The early morning sun
And the warmth
Of its own body
Close to another
As we once were?
I sit waiting
Clasping your cold hand
Waitng for that woman
To destroy th flame.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
