I fed my pretty ones this morning, all of them.
I gave them thorns mixed with the earth,
and they, happily, took what I left
as though it were the last time I would weep for them.
I have the very tip of a star hidden in my pocket,
and I keep his brother in the pages of my journal, to rot,
and to remind me of the things we make room for
that will outlive us.
In the regress we find the lost parts of ourselves,
sew them to our shadow, iron flat the edges-
until we are mistaken for one of the beautiful.
Amberlee Carter
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wearing-the-robe-of-the-dead/
