Cold
Rising from a sleep like a drunken man –
Warm and wicked –
The painful light of acquaintance.
They call me by a name
Not given by birth or baptism –
That does not qualify me.
A life left aside –
Of SIDS and suicide,
Murder and madness.
A life clung to
By fleshy little arms –
Left aside like an empty coat.
On those embraces
That seemed to lack bone,
The duty and the day has folded –
Has fallen and bent
By my one salvation:
Their laughter that sounds like bliss.
by Suzanne Bronson on Wednesday, January 21, 2009
