Monday, September 5, 2011


The Sick Child by Edward Munsch

The slightest wisp of remaining hair
lies flattened on your temple,
and your mouth--blue--a perfect cupid's bow--
waits for one last tender sigh.

Light recently housed in your betrayed body
flies in quick eddies round the hospice
while aunts and sisters hold sacred coffee
to ensnare you,
to bring you home.

I call your name, but it cannot house you.
You burned with love for this life.
We also hover, lured by the hope
of learning your jeweled secret--

---how to forget this dream of attachment.


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