Invitation

.
Like lemmings, I say let us hurl ourselves

topsy-turvy, head over heels off that cliff.

Aim seaward of course, and push off

just as lightning cracks, a white whip to spur us.

Mother, your furtive whisper frightens me.

It frightens me more than the soft whir

of the storm that blows outside, muted by glass.

It is as hairy as the blackberry

you slip into my mouth, cold and sweet.

Alas, I know too well the silver

of your needles will never be able

to stitch us up. Come Mother, let us.

.
This was reworked slightly from the original draft, a result of a writing exercise
shared to me by Laurel.