Friday, 30 September 2016

poem 2016 / 104

Chasing Angels from my Daughter

they mean well, I suppose
or at least in a fashion
these creatures of light;
these creatures of passion
(passion in the archaic meaning
being the suffering of a martyr)
and now also it seems
the pain of my daughter
I wonder what it could be –
what of the girl that they see
what they know that I don't
but reveal it they won't.
Her tortured expression,
heading up from depression
the trembling hands and the tear-ridden cheeks
and the outbreak of hives;
the disconfident streaks
what in her future
could be worse than these years?
Is the terror of age
an investment of fears?
Oil and blood,
a pentangle of wax
a crudly-shaped figure of cardboard and tacks
I'll keep them away if the last thing I see
is taking a knife and delivering me.

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