#1982
You were our first born,
and the first baby
the young doctor had delivered,
assisted by midwife nurses;
the first baby I had seen born
in my 34 years of life.
Your Uncle B came for me
and took me home,
and I walking on air,
being a father for the first time,
having given you my first
daddy smiling stare.
You in your cot
in our room at night,
and I walking on tiptoe
to the cot to hear you breathe,
and hearing your gentle
breathing sound,
I would tiptoe back to bed
keeping the breathing
in my worried daddy's head.
Now you are a mother
and do what good mothers do,
but some nights I imagine
I hear breathing
and imagine it
could be you.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
The full moon haunts me,
it only reminds me of those nights:
The nights that I would sit by my bed,
doors locked and window drapes open.
I would hold the box cutter in one hand and the codeine in the other.
The tears would roll down my face.
The screaming downstairs never stopping.
Wait.
It stopped.
Now there is sobbing and there are sirens.
But the sirens aren't for me,
they belong to the poor woman downstairs.
She obviously didn't see the icicles outside,
with their cold warnings.
Or the man on his porch,
preaching the devil to all that entered my house.
Silly girl,
the man on the moon isn't as kind as he seems.
He loves to come out for death, and death only.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC