His wounds have long since healed.
Mine are still fresh, oozing
a jealousy that cannot be contained.
I want to climb into mother’s lap,
push him aside and take his place.
I would loop my arm around her swan neck,
nuzzle the stony flesh that bears
the mark of the master’s chisel.
If I were the praying sort,
I would ask for peace
or something else foolish.
Maybe I would ask for sleep.
Yes, I would pray, bring me blessed sleep.
Wrap me in a silken shroud
and sing me into marbled dreams.
Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved