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The Blood That Binds



robert michael o'hearn



Not a drop of blood visible to the naked eye
as cased like sausage but within a live mixture,
I must have cringed and writhed, spastic with
infantile delight and unveiling mystery awareness.
A seven month lessor, whose premature exit out
of your womb made me a fugitive newborn preemie.

Today we are altogether almost perfect strangers,
separated entities whose once holistic bonds
reside subliminally inside a more Freudian dream.
I yearn to return back to you my first breath
like a roaring ocean calling back out to you
on another foreign shore, wanting you to rejoin me
in the sea's midst, knowing you'll never return.

Rarely have I partaken such a reflective moment
to think, to cherish any subjective good,
especially contemplating why of one's birth.
Nor countenance on what beneficence might accrue,
sustaining remembrance as our inimical presence's
slowly dissolves in my throat, concentrating
on all that remains memory on nonanalytical analysis,
grinning from sheer sentimentality.

For the dead do burying their own dead,
as the living bury their own kind of little deaths,
and by now I am sure you are quite inured back
into the universe's building block structures,
as vainly I try to claw myself back into another
idealized caption of quite different and uncertain
type of womb: only this time, you are not my mentor,
cannot comfort me. There are no apparent bonds,
and the book that binds us, again is quite invisible.



Scars Publications


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