The Poet

January 03, 1995|By Tillie Friedenberg

Must I love? Is there no other way?

% Anne Morrow Lindbergh


Her heart clicked off

when she saw the bones,

so small, so white,

her son, stolen,

buried in the woods

where she ran screaming

from tree to tree;

and the trees, in pity,

let go their leaves.

Emerging from woods,

blood sludged with sorrow,

she flew to an island

where no bird sings,

tried to climb higher

than pain could fly.

While thorny hedges closed her

in, grief seeped slowly

from her veins.


she turned her mirrors from the

wall. She would re-enter the sky,

steer a course somewhere

below the stars,

above the geese honking north,

head for home.

But where was home? she

wondered. And how would she know

when she got there?

And what would she do

if she heard

from the woods

some cold New Jersey night

her son cry out to her for water

other small comfort?

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