Mariela Griffor (1961- )

Child’s Eyes

People say that children see and hear things

they themselves cannot see or hear,

and this child breaking into

the room to hug and kiss

his grandmother, Wilma,

hasn’t seen me yet.

I am afraid of his eyes,

touching like a hummingbird

the cornea of my eyes.

I don’t want him to see

the puddle of

old pain and rusty love

that grows inside of me,

the spider web of my disappointment,

a beaten heart that

has never overcome the loss of him.

I am afraid of this child

running around with his two frank

years, afraid of me breaking.

I’m sure he would scream

if I let my pupils touch his,

and the room would look

at me knowing the truth of

what he sees.

I am afraid and old,

smashing day after day

a memory of innocence.

I know too much.

My mind is futile.


The Psychiatrist

If I remember correctly, I could not cry

until the baby was born. They wanted to shoot him.

I understood why Manuel Fernandez wanted

me to stay at the hospital after the birth.

I never told him anything about the group.

I could not trust him. I had to be strong

for my child. I needed to go the pump room

and leave my milk. You are suffering a postpartum

depression he told me before I shot him, like the many other

voices in my head.


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