Almost Child

Almost Child By: Nelia-Sol White

 

Sometimes I’d wake up, bleary-eyed and slightly riled,

And you’d already be gone, carried away by some

Childish, boisterous, unwanted hallucination.

Or, perhaps, insomnia. One of those, always.

Sometimes I’d be able to hear you,

Moving about like a fly trying to find an exit.

But I wouldn’t go near you

I learned that the first time.

 

So, I’d rise and throw on that one shirt you liked,

The one that made me feel happy too,

And I’d amble down the stairs to make you breakfast:

Scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon and coffee.

Sometimes in the early morning light I’d see it,

That slightly raised patch of skin at my arm,

Pink instead of a sun kissed tan. I’d

Remember. You shouted, you cried,

Yelled at me, blamed me for her death

Even though it was neither of our faults.

And then I was in pain, blood spilling from my arm

Just as it had been between your legs.

 

I’d hear you coming down the stairs, heavy steps

And heavy sighs and I’d look away from my arm

And over at you, tears in your eyes and clothes terribly askew.

You’d sit down silently and sip the coffee I had laid out for you.

Sometimes you’d comment on the birds chirping outside or the weather

And other times you’d be like this, docile and passive.

I wouldn’t mention anything,

Instead asking if you’d wanted breakfast.

And sometimes you’d say yes.

  1 comment for “Almost Child

  1. Sarah Kinzer
    November 2, 2015 at 12:41 pm

    This poem is so moving, really into it

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