TATTERED LACE

Poem by Carol Schreiber

Summer boy, born on a wintry day
Given to me on a rainy afternoon.
Ripped from the protection of the womb.
You were born too soon,
A tadpole in a dry pond
Trying to breath air through gills
Sticky with old chewing gum.
Strangling on your own life line,
A diver tangled by thick, pulsating weeds.
You struggled to become a frog,
Out of water in a plastic cocoon.
Your heartbeat slowing, Deprived of the air it needed.
A sump pump under water in a storm.
Air forced into your lungs by an ugly green machine,
Balloons being inflated by a drifter at the fair.
A small delicate starfish connected
By octapus tenacles to many machines.
You clung to life like an old champ to his title
In your struggle to survive.
How many times have you died
Each arrest taking away a piece of you,
Like debris being swept off by the tide.
Your undeveloped brain forming,
Like a delicate spiderweb torn by
The fury of winter winds.
The pathways of your mind tangled,
Broken, the veins on a drunks face.
My precious son, a symphony out of tune.
You try to fly through life
A hummingbird with wings of aged, damaged lace.
At times you blend in, a pebble on the shore.
Other times you're diametric,
A drop of blood on fresh snow
You will never understand the
Truth of your own limitations
You march in a parade of your own,
Unaware of the beat of the music.
Your world is an old photo
With only shades of black and white.
There is no compromise, each beasts
Territory is clearly marked
Like a horse wearing blinders
Your vision is focused and narrow.
Hard to teach you emotions you
Can't feel or comprehend.
Easier to teach colors to the blind.
You want to marry and have a normal life,
But you don't have the tools to
Fix the broken doll.
So kind-hearted and tender,
Exposed in a wilderness filled with hungry animals
Only a mother's love and protection can minimize
Bites inflicted by those hungry for easy prey.
What can I give you to soften
Life's ragged, rocky trail,
Yet allow you to feel free.
Who will watch over you and protect you
When I have turned to ashes.
It's hard to fly with wings of old
Tattered lace.

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