In the end he was quickly granted his
rendezvous saying little connecting among
the ghosts of school-room conversations after
his charade of rochambo crushed the bodies
of those children with their knowing eyes.
Little by little we begin to break ranks
mothers unable to restrain us with the old
dreams we left behind in their wombs
fingering our superstitious thoughts like prayer
beads and furrowing our brows when we realize
none of our messages have been opened
none received.
And yet many linger in the hard winter sun
waiting to see knowing that men such as
these always do themselves in by
murdering what they have already won
during a time when they believe they haven’t.
Note: This poem was inspired by a few random lines
of The Complete Essays, by Michel de Montaigne,
which I chopped, scrambled, and tinkered with for
an enjoyable hour or two.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Image based on a photo by Gage Skidmore
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