Saturday, September 28, 2013

Damascene (Poem 179)

When the wind is bitter
his eyes tear and his nose 
runs. In bed at night, 
his wife's feet are cold 
against his warm calves, 
but he doesn't mind.
In the morning, they linger
before beginning another day 
of meetings at the office, 
of slicing apples, 
of changing the sheets, 
and flossing of teeth. 
His daughter's small hand
in his is hot and gritty 
with dirt (she has been digging
in "her garden" again). 
It melts his heart and makes
him ache with love for her.
After sunset, his wife 
switches on his reading lamp,
and climbs the stairs. He closes
his eyes and listens
to the vague murmur of her
voice as she tells 
a bedtime story. 

In memory of the men, women, and children who lost their lives in Damascus, Syria, in August 2013. 

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

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