:: The S.I.C.L.E. Cell ::

:: Sunday, August 15, 2004 ::

Here I am again.
Late.
Working on the book.
Reliving the horror.
My own personal story.
All at once it is too much.

TOO MUCH.

Quicksand I am sinking in.
I grab at anything to stay above the surface.
I fail.
Tears well but do not drop.
I swallow them.
Tonight it is not allowed.
My milk lets down instead,
and I remember the third day...
when a warm shower
produced alabaster life for a dead child.
I slipped down the drain forever and ever.
Yet here I stand,
one foot each
in yesterday and today.
The clock beats like a lingering heart.
It keeps time
for invisible strains
I am humming to a little one
who is not here.

:: ashli 5:15 AM # ::
...