Mervyn Peake
the flood
a son.
no nerve so nervous as to flinch that face
whose flood from nowhere all at once irrupts
and my home created: step welcome rug.
his summertime rain-god, wide at the mouth
underneath my breast where all sorrow had
sat, a lunatic missile pierced the sac.
He, thumping- pulses while my nipples curl
from a blow souldeep and breath of july
screaming melancholy to my porous ducts;
this rain-child, this laughter nonsense, these tears.
[copyright Taylor Roberts, 2008]
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