Ten Months Together
of your need for me
It recedes slowly
absorbed by your mother
Already I miss you
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
by Heidi Van Dixhorn
to make room for you
my hands and knees hang over
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
by Ellen Anderson
To Be Happy
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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