Wildes Writing

Tim Wildes

Though in a world not yet my own, they are present,

thought alone into reality.

They are my spirit and love-

realized by fat and meat not quite my own,

carrying a skin I do not.

In broad strokes however, we are alike,

bleeding the same red;

first mine and now theirs.

I cherish them more than myself sometimes;

they are nothing if not gentle.

Yet when you see them, it isn’t a

small and

innocent

thing.

They just simply aren’t you.

For this they suffer,

            without your offering of a second thought.

And I couldn’t stop you.

My child gone, as if never in my arms at all.

Art by Joe Bacon