DEATH Poem: Death Birth, by Janette MARTIN

Her mother, she imagined,
had died at noon
with the curtains torn open
with the sun bright
in this room with no shadows.

Her baby sister, beside her
In a blanket on the kitchen table
in front of her
was squalling with life;
she had been told to
stay, to talk to the baby,
to sing to the baby,
to learn to love this baby,
a stranger who committed
murder in that well-lit bedroom
with the sun bright
with the curtains torn open,

in the room with no shadows
where their mother
was crying herself to death.

Author: poetryfest

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