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Wounded
Child
 hear
the poem
When everything went white I thought of you –
Your arms and singing and the hyacinth
Perfume that stole across my cheek like dew
Of contraband delight. It wasn’t meant
To last, dear mother, no. And now my hand
Is swathed in white, white too these phantoms quick
Astride my gurney – how they understand
The headlong rush and every corridor’s trick
To usher me into this hospital
Heaven. What pity should you choose to keen
Beyond an ordinary grief or call
In endless protest for what might have been!
Love me no less if less I have to show:
In wholeness shattered will my wholeness grow.
-- Emanuel E. Garcia
"Wounded Child" has been accepted for publication in
The Pharos,
Spring 2005 issue.
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