The Child
Too many times, tears on my face,
Too many times…
I don’t remember crisp snow,
White ruffled curtains…laughter
A hand on my hair at night
Before a warm blanket of sleep
Covered me softly.
I only dream these things – they were not.
I remember little dead kittens,
Lonely nights with no sound of music
Filling the void.
A coffin and a man with a bloodstained fist…
Tears…tears.
My beginning,
Molded pottery…
Heavy, hard to break,
Hard to see through – into
Holding much.
I cannot make white curtains now.
For the eyes of my child
Are crimson red.
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