Hope Henderson
Even when the good drug
pushed through
the tubing and needle
and his writhing
body finally unbuckled
Even when the quills
had been extracted
from the spongy snout
of the brown dog
and her whimpering ceased
I was certain, as a child,
that every pain was,
in some way, eternal
I thought mostly of my mother
and those who had hurt her:
her brother, my father,
the new suitor
with the beard and fur
And sometimes of my own pain
which hung heavy
from my child body like
my mother's evening gown—
the ridiculous, black length of it
pooling at my feet. . . .
Years later
I rise from a bed not mine
thighs damp from a man not mine
and walk home
April sun warms
my neck and face
orange poppy blossoms
loll on their stems
In love
I am a criminal:
I finally deserve it—
Every unending cry,
the whole cacophony
The world is, at last,
my rightful home