A poem for all of us striving to come
to consciousness and survive in our now:
In the hallway the sweet homey smell of gas,
like the blue flame gush through the crinkled
face of the space heater, I huddled with my cousin
under the covers, hidden in our feathered hold.
In the hallway, the smell of comfort and danger,
the door broken down, the neighbor so deep in sleep
he can almost not be wakened to faces bending over.
In bed with you later I hold your hand, so often blue-
tipped with cold, I wait for our shared warmth.
The room isn’t dark, the moon uses its mirror
to reflect the pale sunlight of night on us. Am I
done with longing to live back in my own past?
with the poison fantasy of living another life?
Minnie Bruce Pratt
Creative Commons 2010