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poached| Griswold on Grrrl Power 18 March 2007

Posted by EDITOR in Poetry.
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Bedbugs

In the Bedouin’s foam mattress,
a bedbug mother tips back her baby’s chin
and pours my blood down his throat. You wrote
in all my wandering I risk my chance
to give birth. That’s hardly true. All over
the earth, I’ve fed my flesh to bugs.
That’s some kind of mother for you.

Eliza Griswold

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Comments»

1. kyla - 23 March 2007

That’s absolutely lovely! The internal rhyme is excellent, the rhythm is fabulous, I’m totally in love with this poem.

2. Asma - 26 March 2007

i love the idea of the bedbug mother ;)


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