The Early Child
Were you perfect would I love you less?
I eye your ear, supple question mark,
but a mass where the dot should be, streak of scar
beneath the lobe where surgery takes it tax—
it seems monthly now—those horrific visits for healing,
clinically completing what my womb would not,
always a nightie and needle for forcing your sleep.
I have learned to look after each procedure,
worked at cementing my eyes to yours
even when bloody bandages prevent our
physical bond. My thoughts are always somewhere
on you—your head or mind or heart, and I wonder
what will be left when finally you heal?
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
Copyright July 17, 2004