“Good morning” and she draws the blinds
To herald the arrival of the morn
The child is dead, and I wait
To hold bck the news – a man is born.
With eyes steadfast and hands behind my head,
I hear – the ceiling fan’s monstrous groan,
Confusion, guilt and I don’t know what
Has choked the marrow of my bone.
The hand that painted the flower garden,
The hand tht helped to lift the spade,
Is it the hand that trembles now –
As I raise the razor blade?
The gall and wormwood up my throat,
The touch of steel, on the stubbled skin,
Memories, of a disturbed night –
‘Adoloscence – thy first sin.’
The voice has lost its cheer and sound,
The eyes have lost the glitter
The furtive glances at the forbidden,
There is no escape from the mirror.
No pain, as blood spurts out –
Perhaps the trickle will wash away
The stains of the first adolescent night,
Tomorrow won’t be just another day.
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