My Cradled Child Poem by Marilyn Redcoma George

When the reflection in the mirror
faded to black and the sirens in
the hills malaise-d, the windows
could not shut not quick, unlike
the door that echoed safe.

Believe the dark, the snuffed
out light, and shiny whites that
bounced the moon to shadows
exposed by passing cloud to
etch the hidden in the gloom.

It was as though a silence
fell, soon to be broken by a cry
of a baby who knew not why
their bed side lamp with amber
glow, cast spider webs across the wall.

And now the terror and so the fear
the whistle whispered in the wind
at speed so fast, at speed so cruel
a Shepherd stands beneath its
tail as it descends toward my home.

The shell that resonates sound into
my ear, the muscles that bind my
bone, the hair that sits beneath
my veil, my cradled
child, we die alone.