Never, never, I cried out from sleep a child again.
In my bed of long shadows, I thought,
You don’t remember. Which left me cold.
blood like water, water like night, flowing
That I finally said to you, I remember.
The blood, the night. That you’d held my small bleeding body,
but forgot for twenty-five years.
blood like water, water like ice
At first you said, No. Then, Yes. Then, No.
Your voice so soft from years.
You said I protected you, told him to stop.
blood like ice, the night flowing
You knew but chose not to say, Mother.
You knew but chose not to know.
blood like water, water like night, flowing
Never, never, I cried out from sleep a child again.
Then from deep within, Yes.
I knew. I didn’t know. I remember what I can.
Sherine Elise Gilmour graduated with an M.F.A. in Poetry from New York University. She was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming from Green Mountains Review, Oxford University Press, Public Pool, River Styx, So To Speak, Tinderbox, and other publications.
