The alarm sinks its teeth

into my ear. I drag out

of our warm bed. Another

winter day breaks

in fragments of nightmare.

The sun hasn’t shown,

afraid to face this growling wind

and the thousands of dreary

commuters going nowhere beyond

the dollar sign and grave marker.

I punch on the light and you

roll back over, “love you’s”

exchanged ritually. Baby begins

to cry. I dash for his milk,

one arm in my coat, trailing

dismay, late, late as usual

and tired as this old house

with its peeling paint and cracked bricks.

You hold our son. He smiles,

calls to me and you smile,

that sweet uncertain way.

The sun sends its first weak rays

through this east facing room,

catches, frames you just as I turn

to leave. This narrow space opens;

your honey curls, his cap of gold

blaze”madonna and child.

Articles by B. R. Strahan

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