A sonogram:
Donatella Quinn
In her uterus there is a room:
crimson walls crudely vandalized
by lead laden little hands,
stark streaks of white silently
clawing for release.
If you look closely you can see
an imprint of a small person,
curled into a ball, on the dirty
tile floor. Like a melted citizen
of Hiroshima, whose only trace
of existence is a shadow made
of human mire stretched across
concrete, alone like an escapee
running from Peter Pan
crimson walls crudely vandalized
by lead laden little hands,
stark streaks of white silently
clawing for release.
If you look closely you can see
an imprint of a small person,
curled into a ball, on the dirty
tile floor. Like a melted citizen
of Hiroshima, whose only trace
of existence is a shadow made
of human mire stretched across
concrete, alone like an escapee
running from Peter Pan