Fallen Angel
The view from our hotel balcony was always stunning -
never more so than the night we dropped the baby.
You can have no idea how long it takes
for such a precious object to fall three floors.
From where I stood it felt like drowning –
watching my whole life rushing by;
though as he was only one year old
I’m sure it was momentary for him.
Maybe we were distracted by the fireflies dancing
on the water; or, in a red-wine moment of weakness,
we held each other so tight I lost my grip on reality.
Unthinkable! How could we let it happen?
As it happened, he landed in the bougainvillea –
petal-stained but intact; blooded by lush, red blooms,
but without so much as a scratch.
In postcards home, we never mentioned it;
never spoke of it ever again; ashamed.
Dumbstruck… So, it seems, was he.
Sometimes I can’t help wondering if all the words
he might have conjured fell out, just as he did,
on that star-crossed night – blown on the wind
before he touched down on the blossoms
that broke his fall – for, from that moment,
he broke our hearts with unbroken silence.
Cold-shouldered language; never articulated a word –
as though his head was full of nothing
but hot air and a sense of unspeakable things.
He’s seven now. Professionals come and go –
dumbfounded; failing even to scratch the surface.
Rewarded by silent, enigmatic smiles.
He never makes a sound.
Somewhere, I’ve seen a classical painting:
‘Madonna and Child’; the snow-white infant
kicking his heels on a scarlet cloth and smiling up
at his Virgin mother. Blood-red brushstrokes
flowing, like wine to crimson, revealing
the hidden depth of an inner wound inflicted
by my lapse in concentration.
Sometimes, in the hush of evening, I still see him -
my little angel! Red and rosy with health, snug
in the scarlet bracts of the bougainvillea,
smiling up to a whitewashed balcony;
safe in the arms of a surrogate mother
who seems to be doing the job far better than I.
It’s the primal scream we’ll never hear
in the deafening, muted silence
that makes me cry.
never more so than the night we dropped the baby.
You can have no idea how long it takes
for such a precious object to fall three floors.
From where I stood it felt like drowning –
watching my whole life rushing by;
though as he was only one year old
I’m sure it was momentary for him.
Maybe we were distracted by the fireflies dancing
on the water; or, in a red-wine moment of weakness,
we held each other so tight I lost my grip on reality.
Unthinkable! How could we let it happen?
As it happened, he landed in the bougainvillea –
petal-stained but intact; blooded by lush, red blooms,
but without so much as a scratch.
In postcards home, we never mentioned it;
never spoke of it ever again; ashamed.
Dumbstruck… So, it seems, was he.
Sometimes I can’t help wondering if all the words
he might have conjured fell out, just as he did,
on that star-crossed night – blown on the wind
before he touched down on the blossoms
that broke his fall – for, from that moment,
he broke our hearts with unbroken silence.
Cold-shouldered language; never articulated a word –
as though his head was full of nothing
but hot air and a sense of unspeakable things.
He’s seven now. Professionals come and go –
dumbfounded; failing even to scratch the surface.
Rewarded by silent, enigmatic smiles.
He never makes a sound.
Somewhere, I’ve seen a classical painting:
‘Madonna and Child’; the snow-white infant
kicking his heels on a scarlet cloth and smiling up
at his Virgin mother. Blood-red brushstrokes
flowing, like wine to crimson, revealing
the hidden depth of an inner wound inflicted
by my lapse in concentration.
Sometimes, in the hush of evening, I still see him -
my little angel! Red and rosy with health, snug
in the scarlet bracts of the bougainvillea,
smiling up to a whitewashed balcony;
safe in the arms of a surrogate mother
who seems to be doing the job far better than I.
It’s the primal scream we’ll never hear
in the deafening, muted silence
that makes me cry.
Page(s) 68-69
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