In the Dead of Night

Lying awake on tenterhooks

as the little feet of fear and scorn

pace the carpet in the dead of night

put that here, place this there, always forlorn

Like the breaking of a branch on the forest floor

I rise to be in time to raise her by the ankles

as the spirit cries and inner self dies

over and over and over it rankles

As never do we slumber when death feels so near

just next door where your little pea sleeps

it's my fault I know it I spilt my ground

into hers, as she grew, this trauma it reaps

Every waking hour, every whimper as it releases

is a call to her mother, her world

to allow her to slip away from all

that crowds her mind as the bruise hurled

Straight into everything she hoped for

and everything she dreamt her caretakers

would ever be as she held a pencil as

her sword and her truth as her paper

On which her heart will deliver all

the shades of life that she enters

While I must learn to sleep knowing

while terror reduces but the lesion remembers

That she is beautifully holding a mirror

up to all that hurts and that shames

as she rejects the generational flaw

that is with her parent's names

It is ok to close my eyes now with the

knowing and the feeling and reassurance

that we will wake tomorrow morning

embracing all that is wonderful can heal-us

By Lynn Ruane