Saturday, October 27, 2012

Poem Submission #25 "Angies Ballad"

Angie's Ballad

Her father died one thousand times
from rage that almost killed
before he checked the chambered round
and tilted what he willed:

"Hush, little darling, don't you cry.
Fiddle dum, fiddle dee.
Hush your sweet little angel eyes
and rock yourself to sleep."

Such irony, he thought, in June
the sun would set blood red,
the label on his Bud be red,
and there would soon be wet

red drops of death as in the bag
inside a post-op room
where Jennie met a ghost one night
that swilled inside her womb.

A wise man once said grief was truth,
whatever the offense,
but first denial, then comes spleen,
and then self-evidence.

I'd like to think that truth meant peace
her last September night;
I'd like to think she had a dream
of one bright candlelight

that she and Angie soon would share,
Fiddle dum, fiddle dee.
Jennie, close your tired eyes
and rock yourself to sleep.

October came with Angie's hour
when fading shadows start
to whisper prayers she could not hear,
though heartfelt, heartfelt, heart.......

"It stopped," the doctor said who felt
no pulse left in the blood
and wondered if there was a soul,
much less if there was God.

There was, however, one more soul,
named Niki, five years old,
when Angie died and falling leaves
would better have been snow

to seem like flakes on Niki's cheeks
that had been melted there
while others whiten one more plot
of cubic brown despair.

Envoi

It has been many years since then,
but in these words still five
sad legacies spell H.I.V.:
three dead, a bag, and one alive.

http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/archive/?date=19901016&slug=1098597

No comments:

Post a Comment

RiseUpToHIV Daily News Digest