Survivor

That child who stayed alive

miraculously, perhaps hibernated,

perhaps for the mechanical navel

of a ventilator,

or rather for the invisible thread

of blood

that ran hidden up to her.

Perhaps nourished by night

by an ancient mother,

the supper stealthily served

in the black place of her punishment.

That child (it’s incredible),

grown up in the false bottom of a cradle

surviving behind a false wall,

in a hidden attic,

that old child,

perhaps now she can live indeed.

Look at her with no tears

slowly exiting her hiding place,

the dark prison,

her eyes narrowing, her pupils contracting

just because of the little light passing through the window,

her plaids out-of-fashion

her dress short for how much she’s grown by now.

She smiles uncertainly,

She asks herself whether she’ll ever been able

to hasten her step up

to catch up the time

that meanwhile is gone

March 21, 2005