Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Manse















Born in a house of glass
I.C.U. for an entire childhood
as ushers and vestrymen
monitored
the babies.

Cool walls, first props for first steps
smudged with the grease of growth-
later, tapped upon curiously
then pounded upon furiously
as adolescence settled in.
Looking out.
Seeing in.

They would not be satisfied.
The monitors.
We would not be Gods
or God’s children
or even angels.
But neither would we hang
from someone else's cross
for someone else’s guilt.

And we left the glass manse
by the back door.
Escapees.
Defectors.
Exiles.
Refugees.
But I still have the key
to remind me
of failing to be
PK
or PC.

2 comments:

ArtsyLynne said...

strong and illustrated to bring our eyes in to your poem
"living in glass bubbles"... yet
your words evoke so much more quite effectively

(I've been out of blogland a long while. I used to have a blog *Emerald Eyes* and use the name "gel.")I'm glad I found your blog again to bookmark it.

Karen said...

The glass manse - a very interesting image. The image of "monitors" from whom you must escape is almost science fictiony, though I have a feeling it's much too much fact.