A Referenced Low

It is daylight here, and I am
Perched over your soulless body,
Like a molded doll.

I am writing on the grass
Above your bones in hopes
That you will hear these
Written words—
Catch them in your
Butterfly net.

The ground is moving
Below me. I am elevating
With each one of your breaths.

Your womb is surely rotten
Now, surely sitting delicately
On a pink cushion like the one
I place my head upon each night.
I can almost feel its warmth.

I used to live there, you know—
Maybe I was most comfortable,
There in your womb.

I talk to you so often,
through written telepathy.

You are a god here, you know,
My own church of faith.

I can see your features
In your casket womb now.
I am a replica of you.

How many years has it been
Since I sat here in this grass?
We keep meeting in poetry,
In comparable time, but I
Greet you today in actual time.

My cousin is lying next to you;
He is glaring at me. Your father’s
Flat stone is tapping me on
The shoulder. My Plato father
Is waving at me from across
The asphalt, his son next to him.
A rather normal reunion, this is.

I hover over you like an Indian.
I’ve come here for your advice,
To merge mother nature with
Mother nurture. I cradle my
Journal like the Madonna.

Your silence is my answer.