Ben

Margaret V.Doran

Pixie face and golden hair
blue eyes clear and cold as ice
toothy grin and mirthless laugh
an unlikeable child, a child not "nice"

Who will not look me in the eye
his head swinging from side to side
as I hold him gently in my arms
and softly speak just to him

Hopping from place to place
as a flea would do
unable to sit still, unwilling to listen
Nervous energy in continual motion

Jumping here to there but not
going anywhere. Indecision of
purpose and direction and destroying
most things he touches

Lying in all things
when he dains to speak,
unwilling to tell even the
simplest truths

Devious and sneaky, without
respect for anything or anyone
Will not acknowledge possession by any other
and refuses to share

Disobedient, disrespectful and rude
to his mother and everyone else
DEMANDING all things immediately
and every whim and wish fulfilled

He does not cry - ever
but screeches and yells and fights
and calls names and shouts
epithets of contempt and hate

No tear on the pale, cold cheek
no pain reflected in the hard face
as solid as carved granite
perfect but without emotion or remorse

You poor child, only four years old
and cannot be trusted in the smallest things
what will happen when you are fourteen
and decisions are no longer small?

Whenever I speak, giving directions
you stare back with your glacier eyes
unmoving, unreachable as if
I speak a foreign language and you are deaf

A smile without joy and laughter
only in response to another’s pain
My son, too, tries to befriend you.
Are you capable of friendship?

I yearn to see crinkles at the corners
of those young, icy eyes and the dimples
that belong in those cheeks
and a quivering lip or chin

I would not break that stoic will;
but bend it so that it can
encompass love and true
human emotion

Where are you, little child?
Why are you hiding from me
when all I offer is love unconditional
and arms to hold you safe and secure

Have you been hurt so badly
in your four short years that no one
will ever be able to break through your barriers
and you will never be able to let yourself feel?

My heart grieves!

Copyright © 1997 Margaret V. Doran. All rights reserved.

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Updated July 1, 1999
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