Ten Months Together

I am emptying myself

of your need for me

It recedes slowly

absorbed by your mother

then gone


Already I miss you

your touch

your mouth warm on me


I ache inside

sore and wanting

that warm liquid to

surge through me

to fill me once again


You won't remember that I made you thrive

surpassing your equals

or that I comforted you

like nothing else could


Now you are gone from me

and I lay quiet

and empty


by Heidi Van Dixhorn


I'm on the edge of the bed

to make room for you

my hands and knees hang over

restlessly unanchored

the rest of me drifts on the dreamboat of sleep.


Sleep was the voluptuous, endless, warm

embrace of ocean waves.

Now sleep is a fondly remembered acquaintance,

whose quick embrace I cherish for

just moments, short silences.


Then the music starts,

the calliope clanks,

I jump back on the carousel

to reach for you.


I'm on the edge of my seat

my hands and eyes follow you as my mind wanders

I follow the giggle trails you forge through the house, through

the air, into the future,

trying to catch up.


You find me and find I am

the boat, the ocean, the embrace, and

you sleep.


by Ellen Anderson

To Be Happy

When I think of laughing, I think of my mother.

My mother is somewhat tall, a brunette

and wears glasses; I resemble her.

My father enjoys making fun of my mother.

From time to time, my mother speaks loudly and laughs.


When this happens, someone brings her to the psychiatric hospital where

she rests for several months. My mother telephones her daughter.


I listen and try to understand but I cannot help her. Therefore, when I

think of laughing, I think of my mother and cannot.


by Virginia M. Farris

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