My opus of poetry

opus4

Dear child,
You are my opus of poetry.
-W.E.

 

Sometimes,
I wish I was a woman.

Nine months of poetry I would write to last your lifetime.


I’d cook and feed myself with my own hands blowing a prayer over each meal.


I’d read every book of prose, love and of God I could find.


I’d worship, fallen in prostration, yet dancing in elation, weeping for everything inside me to transfer to you.


From milk I would give you for as long as you suckle,


To stare at you in forty years and say,

He is, she is,
My opus of poetry.
-W.E.

4 thoughts on “My opus of poetry”

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