Stigmata
How it aches -
that phantom weight
of your child laying against you.
My mother,
three days before she died,
asked for a cuddle, and I,
no longer a child, refused.
Why did I care who would see
my middle-aged self
squeezed onto her hospital bed?
Such small regrets
adhere to my palms.
that phantom weight
of your child laying against you.
My mother,
three days before she died,
asked for a cuddle, and I,
no longer a child, refused.
Why did I care who would see
my middle-aged self
squeezed onto her hospital bed?
Such small regrets
adhere to my palms.
posted by burning moon at 12:54 PM
2 Comments:
It never ceases to surprise me, how our regrets about past events come to catch us , take us back there, and force us reassess how we responded and what we might have done differently.
Such small regrets
adhere to my palms.
And what a lovely way to encapsulate that feeling
Thanks, I'm glad you like this, although I'm not happy with:
Such small regrets
adhere to my palms.
It doesn't read quite right to me. Needs rewording slightly or something. The rhythm is off with the rest of the poem. I've tried a few variations, but none of them worked for me so far.
Maybe 'these' small regrets? It's the first word of the first line that seems awkward to me.
Any ideas?
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