Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter



That night,
Under the full moon,
At the bottom of the garden,
I toasted you with the last can of beer I had,
You and your mother, already upstairs,
You new, in the old basket
Next to our bed.

Morning came,
The blood from the kitchen washed away
Down the sink, and sleep wasted
On the hours.

Three children now,
Two astounded at the newest life tiny
In the massive crib,
One breathing her first,
Hands clinging to empty air,
Eyes struggling against strange light.

There never were any names
Until you named yourself.
There never was a you
Until you made yourself.

For Kara, on her birthday
R, 30/03/2015; 00:07

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