Ephrastasia

Imagine a cold-blue baby, arms flailing, pushing all away
a woman, perhaps the baby's mother, shown in fragments
partially revealed in black and white, a photo
superimposed upon a mask-like robotic mannequin
whose mouth is sewn tight to a zipper
that could be opening or closing.
Peeking out from beneath the feet of the baby
the surly face of a mistrustful child,
while tucked around the edges, an afterthought
of richly rendered fantastic flowers.
All fragments, nothing clear, as if baby, child, mother,
each holds a tiny piece of the whole
and nothing will come clear
until all come together again
unfettered, unsewn, open.

Mary Margaret Carlisle