Adoption

Your moue whispers in my ear
the bald, cold figments
that signify your voice.
You inspire the derelict mouths of
weary, insipid moppets,
Expose the blood of your spirit
like a milky moon
or a yearning organ,
Leave shaking a faint heart.
It is thievery,
a sly trick of the tongue
and my keys have ears for you.
I can hardly hear my own
small heart through your
pounding loth shrine,
and as they coincide I am prone
to listen to either
the louder
the stronger -
when one faints the other burgeons
like a blood red poppy
flapping perilous
waving a wand of contrition
a rueful garden.
I grow my blossom
from your own opiate pod.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007