who'll be the one
to bring your secret wish to light?
Can it be me,
can it be me,
can it be I, who hunkers down
to plumb the caves, who gasping, long
and extra, hoists the clanking iron lung
and goes to meet the monsters of your mind?
Can it be me,
who ties you to the chair
and says, My turn, my turn, to be the mom
and you to be the little babe?
Can it be me,
who, lying in the box of Head of State,
sashed red and golden silked, and waxed
and glowing like a wicked orb?
Can it be me, who
climbs out, brushes off,
who lumbers over to the center of the stage,
climbs podium to greet the people:
Don't cry for me! Don't cry for me,
Mom! Let it be me to do the crying—
it always hurt the most
—when it was you who cried for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment