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WakingThe last time I was awakeNight after night My daughter was new born Cried for milk I'd wake and lift her Nurse in the dark living room Sometimes seeing moonlight On the snow-laden branches of the blue spruce Listening to the dogs bark Now, my daughter is ten I wake in middle-age Heart pounding, hot, alert As if something hungry needed me I get up and stand Alone by the cold window Mistaking moonlight For falling snow What is it that wakes me? My daughter sleeps soundly The black cats look enquiring But their bowls are full What am I trying to feed Admidst my thoughts of death and money Something out there needs me I just don't yet know what it is. |
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Issue #12, November, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.