Tender Mother Sleep

Tender mother sleep
lulls us speechless–

childhood mirrors bathe us
for hours in tangerine shadows,

whisked by fragrance
and pebbled with gray area.

We trip through a hole in the floor
nary an inch wide, but big enough

to engulf us once and forever
in haze and old-timey rhetoric.

Argyle suits beckon us further,
to the so-called country

and the wasps in charge of it
until they strangle all life

or die trying, mouths ablaze
and flies open, awaiting service.

Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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