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