These Are the Days / lynn sweeting

these are the days
for caring about the poem,

let it be round,
softly curved like a moon,

washed in sandbank green,
tongue of the ocean blue,

let it bite your tongue
like mango in salt sea,

let it bring you to your knees
like the sight of a lost mother

coming through the door,
like blue sky raining,

like blood upon the floor,
let it reek of roses

as if grown among roses,
crabgrass and holy bones,

let it say everything
I dare not say

in a voice I’m content
to call my own.

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