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