Baby Pain


When you were six months old, your father left.
It wasn’t his idea, and my belief
that you were too unformed to feel bereft,
was wrong – you just lacked language for your grief.

When you were almost three, my body burst
apart inside, and I was pulled from you.
The others cared but didn’t put you first
as you deserved: adults without a clue.

We sent you then from home to baby school
and you, beyond frustrated, grew so mad
it boggled all of us. I’m such a fool –
for I was blind the way I missed how sad
and gross a load we laid on your brave soul –
but you’re a hero, and you’ve grown up whole.

This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s