an ambrose child is a thing
that harbors moons in his eyes
and quoth the Bible from his lips
in blindness and silence
holding his own lamb
above slaughtered sheep—
he understands convection
in his tired imperfections
that move from high-motion
to the simplification of his deadpanned
sincerity when he tells those about him
that only cretins think
with their loins and rather
he would think with his mother.
an ambrose child
is a thing
that beckons mothers to rock
him to sleep, singing the songs
that David sang to soothe
the savage Philistines so that he
may be soothed from his
savageries;
and fathers to steal away
in the arms and sex
of the child bearing no more
for a jaded child disgusts them
as he shakes for what caused
his being—he shivers for the
deadly kiss from unpursed lips
to make another: he wishes
to make another, but the elixir
dried up in boisterous middle-age.
and ambrose
child
is a thing
that kisses sisters on the lips
to share a love that fades
into space with no room to grow
until the heavens grow too small
to hold the three of them
upon stormclouds where
their mother and father boom
through the blistering winds
to cease desires unbound by
holy kindred vow: those blindly
made for the sake of an embryo
and kept so that only those embarking
on their own plantations can see
just how cultivating is done
nowadays.
an ambrose
child
is a
thing
that hangs upon the doorway
of a bedroom with
words scribbled over white-washed walls
and blankets are used to cover
blood stains on the floor
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