Hollow

Final poem in a King, Mother, Baby poem trilogy. A bit darker.

Still, my body.

Infant, weak.

Still, cradled.

Her arms blister.

Hot from my flame.

Flesh cracking.

Flowers, grow.

Out of wounds.

A sigh, she gives.

Tears pricking.

I don't care.

The world, spinning.

High above my cradle.

High above my reach.

The room, sunken.

With the ash of me.

Falling, falling.

Into my lashes.

Thorny crown, tossed.

Simmering below.

Deep, in the hollows.

Dizzy, with poison.

The bile erupts.

Spat on her dress.

A wine of poppies.

Poppies, pool.

From my cold mouth.

"Shh, shh," she murmurs.

Father, doesn't hear.

Do I hear? Am I here?

Spin, the Earth.

She does, on my axis.

Spin, the Moon.

He does, on his own.