NO ONE CAME TO VISIT

NO ONE CAME TO VISIT


no one came with flowers
no one came with pink
balloons or candy
no one brought pink dresses
to fit a new born.

Mother, she knew.

No one believed
or wanted to see a child
who entered this world
a little over a pound -
medical men told her,
“She won’t survive the
night.”

Mother, she knew -

she knew when two men
visited
knew only one – but
knew of the other
one man sat to her right
one man to her left.

These visitors did not
bring balloons or candy
or a pink dress for their
new grand daughter –
a baby who would fit into
their palm -

a baby with tubes in
temples –
a body to small and
needles too large

both men died before
the birth of her child

her father spoke to her,
her father in law
listened. . .

“Don’t worry she will
survive and make you
proud.”

Medical men entered
her room and mother
smiled.
Medical men warned
her – “Babies this small
do not survive.” –

Mother, she knew.

Daddy entered her room
she smiled.
told him their little girl
would survive
he pulled a chair up to her
bed, held her hand, and
listened. . .

He probably smiled back
he must have warned her
to face the truth -
mother, stubborn,
she believed.

A few days passed,
the medical men told her
again –
a week went by, and she
smiled -
two weeks, the medical
men stopped talking of
death –

Mother peered through
glass at her baby –
lying inside a metal box –
inside with tubes and monitors
with no one to touch a child’s
grey skin.

She watched as a chest
was forced to expand
she prayed to herself –
she waved good bye -
thanking the Medical men –
telling them she would be back

every day – to watch a child
who barely opened her eyes.

There was no touching,
or cuddles, no wrapping
of tiny fingers around her own,
no legs kicking, or laughing
when a child yawned, thinking
it was a smile

no one talked about their
little girl –
no one asked about the color
or her hair – her eyes or her
personality
no one asked if she looked
like mother or father . . .
no one talked.

Mother, she believed.

Every day – from summers
end into dead leaves of fall
onto ice on city walks,
she walked up a hill
to the hospital to stare
through glass –
her walk home - eyes filled
with tears, she recited an
Irish prayer.

Every day after work
father walked up the hill
to stare at his child he
could not hold –
laying naked inside a metal
bed with tubes still
attached to her forehead.

He watched as nurses
tapped the soles of her
feet – to keep her awake
to suck on a miniature
bottle – she began to eat . . .

It was the day before
Christmas - a snow
filled sky – when news
arrived – she could come
home.

Three months and ten
days after her birth
she weighed five pounds -

nurses wrapped her
in tiny booties
a white undershirt
a small pink dress - now
snuggled up inside pink
blankets

with open arms - mother
held her little girl
peered into her open eyes
pinched her little hands
and feet.

Mother, she knew

On Christmas day inside a
neighbor’s car they brought
their little girl home.

Mother looked at my father
and said, “I told you so,
she would survive.”

It was beneath their
Christmas tree – I laid
inside a red wagon –
my older brother next to me
a red bow tied around my
forehead -
Christmas and I finally
made it home.

Mother, she knew.

ANGELS FLY BETWEEN BRANCHES OF A TREE

Angels Fly Between
Branches of a Tree

Angels gather above trees
behind my home – I told friends –
do you believe me?
have my friends seen angels
between the branches of my tree?

In the morning I stand barefoot
grass sneaks between toes
wet from morning dew,
grown ups call it dew. . .they
say dew covers grass –
our cellar door – where I sit –
is wet, covered in dew.

I walk bare foot – feet covered
in dew – I wiggle my toes
wait for the angels to return –
wonder I could learn to fly?

I push my hair away
from my face – damp hair
filters between each
tips of my fingers -

a sun begins to peek
out from the mountain. . .
spreading orange into
a fog.

Now – stare at the tree
I whisper aloud - now
sparkles of light flicker as
diamonds – entering my
skin, my soul, magnifying
day – as transparent
as a sky of blue above me
as a sudden state of light
of different colors paints
the sky. . .

I tell people, “I feel different,”
but no one believes me – or
will they join me in early
morning when words do
not illustrate how articulate
a mystery is –

I know what I left inside
is a blank canvas, unpainted -
outside a sprinkle of angel
dust has unclouded my
mind –

So I wake up early each
morning to feel damp skin –
to wiggle my toes.

ANTI AGING A TRIP TO THE DRUGSTORE - MORE Magazine

"Published in More Magazine 2010"

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