Jan 132010
by George Bishop
As children
love wouldn’t let us
say goodbye, kept sex
a myth away and certain
rooms locked. If we wrote
the pages were kind,
each emptiness open,
full of the words
we hadn’t discovered—
the ones that come to us
now, longing to reach back,
knowing now they can only go
as deep as the end of a pen.
Touching then, touching now.
Still learning to spell
by the light of a keyhole,
to believe by the heart
most children cross.