Today's poem is by David Mura
Aubade
A wound is a blossom
but only to the living.
A May night, birdsongbefore the first light pierces,
chirps out of blackness:
My daughter's angry at meand her mother as I
was once angry at mine.
It's a way of crossing over.I'm so tired now.
And my core's
all water, flowingsomewhere where the sea
can't find her. And neither
can I. How much longertill I finally lose her? Where
is the first dawn wet blossom?
Who recalls how I touchedher mother once? Or many others?
How night is not always easy.
Nor are daughters. Nor are sons.And how is it I've become a father
watching light sift slowly
into the daughterless dark.
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Copyright © 2014 David Mura All rights reserved
from The Last Incantations
Northwestern University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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