Three Poems by Jenny Mitchell

IceFloe Press

Dancing with the Matriarch

I thought her dead,
laid in the morgue’s blue shroud,
mouth closed for once with no complaints,
You should have come to visit less.

I venture close, press lips against a chilly ear,
whisper child-held secrets,
feel a pulse, jaw loose,
saliva drooling from her lips.

As I step back, they open even more
revealing the fierce shards
incisive as her final words,
You were never worth the labour.

My back seeks wall for spine
as she begins to shake,
flesh bouncing on lithe feet to stand,
corns gleaming fire opals.

Withered arms slip through the air,
her voice alive with song,
Dance with me, my dearest daughter
words I never heard before.

But our bodies fit – not doll
inside a doll: women parallel.
She sings, Breathe on me, Breath of God.
Fill me with life anew

The morgue spins wild. As…

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