the midnight child

it was the moon’s day.
I slept late and long,
and when I rose
I did not know
if I was still dreaming.
we fought, and then made
angry love. you left, and I
took what I had wrested
from you and used it
to make a child, dark
and lonely as the night
that spawned her.

she is a sad thing,
a haunted, haunting thing,
an unnatural creature sewn together
from my fears and my desperate
striving for something
to give you in the wake
of all my failures.

you could not bring yourself
to speak of her
for two whole days,
while I wept and tried not
to take it to heart.

I know she is not
like our other children.
she does not laugh and run free
in the woods at night,
but skulks and hides
in the shadows
of the hearth. but
her strangeness does not
frighten me. and her crying
pulls at my heart and
haunts me while you sleep.

and she is still mine and yours. perhaps
with love and kindness,
patience and forgiveness,
we can still make of her
something you’d be proud
to claim as your get.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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