Of the examining room
With her.
There's a chair,
A hard wooden one.
But there's no room
For her to sit beside me.
And she's too big
To perch in my lap.
So I sit on the floor.
She's afraid.
We’ve been coming here
Every week for many weeks.
But last week
I went away
And left her alone
With these kind strangers.
They put her to sleep
And when she awoke,
Her world was different.
She's afraid.
When she walks,
Things hit her.
Things she cannot see.
She doesn’t understand
That her eye is sewn shut
To protect the inner stitches.
The doctor’s careful work,
Trying to save her eye
So it doesn’t have to be sewn shut
Forever.
She's afraid.
I see it in her trembling,
In the way she pants.
I tell her it’s okay.
Just a re-check today.
He’s just going to look,
I’m not going to leave her.
But my words mean nothing.
She presses against me
Seeking comfort.
She's afraid.
So I sit on the floor
With her.
Okay, as I said, I'm not a poet. I just felt like writing this. Do you ever get the urge to write something that's not at all your thing? Different form, different genre? How does it turn out?
Unwriting progress: From the original 150,000 words down to 110,937. (Did you notice? I actually squeezed in a little re-write time this weekend. Finally got under 111,000.)
I'm currently enjoying: Secrets of Eden by Chris Bohjalian
Quote of the day: A poem begins with a lump in the throat. - Robert Frost
