Hurt: Sonnet for the One in the Middle
The voice unknown informed. “A fall,” it said.
A photo flashed to mind: pale face long-lashed
and shrouded; pond of blood beneath her head.
The middle-born of (Sally) Mann, brow gashed.
No given image: just “hurt”- my child. “Come”
the nurse required; to her I sped, all space
division cruel, fretful uneven sum.
Her mortal lesson kissed, unwelcome grace.
The wait, for her, my small and swollen child
took twisting time and stretched it tight, brocade
of blooded bruise, and fears unreconciled.
School steps the weapon, mother gone, eyes staid.
Her body holds the wound, its grip grotesque,
to memory twines, a Moorish arabesque