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amywink November 19th, 2017

Home

As my father falls asleep,
he asks so quietly,
are you going to take me home?
Are you going to take me home?

And I have no answer
that will not shatter
my voice so instead,
in the silence of my
breaking heart,
I ask for him to sleep.

After his breathing
evens into sleep,
an answer comes,
late as always, but
an answer all the same.

Yes, I am taking you home
I will take you
all the way home
but not just now,
just for this moment,
however long we
have together,
we are always
together already home.

Open Heart

amywink November 18th, 2017

Open Heart

How wide
can the heart
break open?

As wide as
is necessary
for all
the light,
for all
the love
for all
the kindness
for all
the world.

As wide as
is necessary
to never
close
again.

The Children of My Oldest Friends

amywink November 6th, 2017

The Children of My Oldest Friends
_For Leah, Toni, and Sharon

I was holding
someone else’s
child, asleep
across my lap,
when I knew
that would not be
the story of my life.
I worked, driven,
toward a different
kind of creating future,
one now coming
to fruition in this moment
a quarter century later,
in this moment
when the children
of my oldest friends,
daughters and sons,
enter the world changed
and changing still,
and I see, with
such illuminating joy,
in their bright faces,
those faces of
my dearest friends,
my unrelated kin,
who I first loved
in the world,
who saw,
and knew,
and loved,
without requirement
or condition other than
the growing pleasure
of my company.

Giving the Light

amywink October 27th, 2017

Giving the Light
For Alex, one of the beautiful souls I have known.

Putting Alex to bed
the lamp beside
him glows reassurance.
Though he fears his need for light,
this small, articulate boy hopes
it is okay, at three,
to be so reassured in darkness.
He questions his brother’s meaning,
asking, more than stating,
“I sleep with the light on
because I’m a scaredy-cat,”
glancing at me because the lamp
does not speak to this fear.

For this he needs a grown-up,
someone with knowledge of such names
and their accuracy,
more familiar with the world,
acquainted with whatever may
be out there, beyond his knowing.
“No,” I reply, to what he as really asked,
“you’re just afraid because you do not
know what is in the dark.”

He looks right into me.
“Are you afraid of the dark?”

How could he know what he had asked?
Right now, in my own darkness,
I am so afraid
and there is no lamp beside me,
no grownup to ask if
it is okay, at thirty, to need the light.

Truthfully, I reply, “Yes,
sometimes, because I do not know.”
and because he may know an answer for himself,
I ask, “What is in the dark?”
Quiet, he sits with his blanket, pondering
and then,
in a voice as beautiful as a photograph
he speaks,

Soft and certain, he gives me
“the moon. . . . and the stars.”

(1995)

Always

amywink October 27th, 2017

Always
on the approach of Stacey’s birthday, October 31.

I am surprised by
grief this morning
and not at all surprised
in the closing days of
her October.
I’d promised her
I would be okay,
moving toward
those things we both
understood I am
meant to do.
And mostly that is true
and often more beautifully
true than I ever imagined
possible as so much
joy keeps returning
after the long sacrifice
she helped me finish,
but grief remains
a presence through
this second year
and though she is
always with me,
she is also
always
always
gone.

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