Infant Boy 1895

Frances Richey
| poetry


I came into being unknown
to myself, a small sac of seawater
and soft bones. Time and memory
had no meaning for me. Weightless
hunger spidered with blood, I was alive.
Then I wasn’t.
And when I fell out of the warm
pool of her body, she buried me
in the backyard under her hydrangeas,
and left me there, unnamed, when
she went back to Stony Creek.

Frances Richey is the author of two poetry collections: The Burning Point and The Warrior, and the editor of Voices of the Guard, a chapbook of voice poems. She teaches poetry writing classes for Himan Brown Senior Program at the 92nd Street Y and for JASA in New York City.

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