A poem for Good Friday

Precarious Safety

Once in the fog of awake and asleep I saw
baby carriages hanging, suspended.
Cracked and in need of parts, they were
structurally unsound.

So, hands covered in small and stinging cuts,
I built precarious safety and called it
sticks woven together into a nest

Once I dreamt of fully conceived art,
prints of suburban homes with stick growths attached to their roofs.
I named them suburban stick-pods and took them as my own.

Once I saw, quickly, a man's teeth and bones straighten
and become the forming bones of an infant in the womb.
It kissed its mother before it was born
and lay, covered in blankets.
The layers came off and legs kicked happily.



Eva Christensen, 2009