Claudia Serea

The Age of the Innocent Poem

The innocent poem grazes on the grass.
The air crinkles with light,

the cardinals hushed in the bushes,
and, under leaves, the ants hold their breath.

Clouds or mountains of unusual clarity
cut the sky with razor edges

and the cabbage thieves greet politely
the guards in the field.

I can almost hear the pea pods burst open,
whispering Excuse me,

and my young daughter didn’t yet pull apart
the butterfly’s wings.

Allow me another word,
Mrs. Grim Reaper Reality,

another sip from this warm brew,
not yet bitter,

another moment to listen to the lips
that rip the grass blades

and pull them into the poem’s
soft mouth.


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