When you spilled out of me,
the trees were shedding reds and gold,
baring their heads before the gods.
They took you from my naked
arms, bending down as autumn limbs
towards dropped, round fruit.
You perfected me, completed form,
not sketched in lines as I am now.
Do you remember me?
Once, you were sound,
and I was breath. Unspoken
forgotten poem, I am half-thought.
Forgive me this love, clichéd
and grasping mother love.
Forgive these desperate hands.
Forgive I do not know your name.
When darkness drifts upon my bones, splayed out
in semblance of a life, I sometimes shed this loss.
When I’m half awake and restless tossed,
you call for me to wander beneath autumn trees
where you unfold into those reds and gold.
I am soaked and naked Hail Mary
upon my lips. I say your name.
Your lips kiss my shame, and I
bend to you.
© Ami Mattison
For One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday
Photo Courtesy of Cape Cod Cyclist