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The Waves

Old men on fourth-story balconies stare down at me,

Children pass by playing ball.

A mother takes in her plain tablecloth, frowning.

I will die

If before nightfall no one touches me.

There is a hospital in this town called Gli Incurabili,

They will take me there and lay me down on the bed like an ivory blade.

I will be pure as a virgin offering empty hands to Christ

And the world will throb beneath me like sea’s blue beneath its white.

from You Darling Thing Find more by Monica Ferrell at the library

Copyright © 2018 Monica Ferrell
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

Published in Monica Ferrell Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.