<i>to Ms. Katie</i> <br /> <br />In some parts of the world, <br />a shaman in a mask <br />administers the blow, <br />which then draws blood. <br /> <br />Here, our masks are subtler <br />and the blood is subtler, too. <br /> <br />The child comes to his new school, <br />holding Mother's hand. <br />He dives into a paradise of toys; <br />all this and Mommy too, he thinks, <br /> <br />but soon she leads him to the gate, <br />trying to speak consoling words, <br />words that drown amid his screams. <br /> <br />The teacher lifts him to her for a kiss <br />before the gate and door of Mercy close. <br />All morning he may beg us 'Open it! ' <br />believing she's still standing there behind, <br /> <br />Or like one little girl I knew, <br />wander the morning in a dream, <br />intoning 'Mommy' as a mantra <br />every other breath, to bring her close. <br /> <br />I can't forget the screams I've heard, <br />the shades of rage and grief that rise <br />as the cord that lingered <br />after birth, invisible, is cut <br />and life deals its first of many blows. <br /> <br />When Mommy comes at noon, <br />the child rushes to her arms. <br />The cord's restored, <br />but never will it be the same, <br /> <br />and we who witness this, <br />we wounded healers <br />still recovering <br />from our own being cut adrift <br /> <br />try to cushion blows <br />with hugs and words: <br /><i>'What can you do to make yourself <br />feel good till Mommy comes? '</i> <br /> <br />Midwives to the necessary slaughter, <br />we try to raise the face of Love.<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wound/
