Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Sunday, February 6, 2011

The Lucky Ones

Photo: Rabbit's Den 
And we were the lucky ones
We made it through our childhoods unscathed
Perhaps there was the stray hand on our knee
     underneath the dinner table at Thanksgiving
Or the overly friendly hug
     from a teacher
But we were lucky
We were not the faces on the milk cartons
We were not the bodies found
     desecrated and dead

We were the lucky ones
Our youth didn't die in shotgun weddings
     to boys we didn't love
Nor in back alley nightmares
     from which we might never return
We were lucky
Our nightmares were bright and antiseptic
Wake up, wipe our eyes, and carry on
We had no right to cry

We were the lucky ones
Our bodies were not battered
Perhaps our souls were shattered
Maybe we've been betrayed
     by lovers' lies or dreams that died                       
But we were lucky
Our children had a home
No bruises, no broken bones

We were the lucky ones
We were pale and weak
And lost our hair
But we were lucky
Our hearts still beat inside our ruined chests
Our hands still create beauty
     though we are no longer beautiful
We sing for those
     who lost the battle we still fight
And we were the lucky ones


kirsten said...

I believe you meant Christmas Eve, not Thanksgiving . . . .

I like this! Good on you!

Paulo Guimaraes said...

Beautiful and strong poem!