Labour Day

for my sister, giving birth

 

A double meaning, I guess. When the effort offers

more wind to the process, a grown-up confusion

depreciates. A day of countless promotions, too,

suddenly glimmers, as seismic as the letters

of your name in the skin of new day. Numbers

reduced into decreed holidays. Once again,

these are the borne context on your head, set

to cradle the perfect word in a tin house we built

for freelance work and exclusive reading repast.

My dear sister, you lay there waiting for now.

My dear sister, you lay there closing your eyes.

Don’t you know the sun is knitted for a pumpkin

hat, its rays the colourful socks for tiny feet

insecure about the dripping weather in September.

Oh, my sister, labour day is all fine with jazz!

Before I forget, just what I heard on the news,

Kim Jong Un loves to play with missiles

with no carrier-propositions. And just so you know,

dear sister, like Kim, I’ve watched the episodes

of The Boy General, expecting that in e