Poem – Emma Neale



His mouth a small red hearth
we crowd around
drawn like man-moths
to its light and warmth.

When its suck and flicker at the breast stops
we blow cool breath on the soft black coal of his head
to make its wet spark dart again.

A scarlet trapdoor with tiny clapper
that knocks and knocks at our dreams and enters,

his mouth springs open
like the lid of a surprise
to loosen translucent birthday balloons of

I, I, I,
Ah, ah, ah.

We stand here and watch them rise;
like the night crowds at fireworks
make of our own mouths a kind of mirror:

Oh. Oh.  You.

Emma Neale

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