She sits in her corner, turning page
after paper page…
Held by two walls, floor and wood ceiling,
she removes herself
from still more broken connection.
Out there, nothing but loss.
In here, with pictures and stories, friends and
a giving, participatory world.
With father gone for work, back for dinner,
home only for irritation, judgment and sleep,
With mother avoiding pain through worry,
busyness and food,
anger unthinkable,
The girl is left knowing–
beyond the material,
she’s on her own.
Books act as balm
until, later, distance and exploration
return her to the early grief
of being alone
surrounded by people.
The nectar soothes her broken heart,
tear by reclaimed tear.