The Bottom Line - April 3

So whatever the story it leads to this: a baby
born too soon - an instant photo kept in a box,
his tiny knitted boots. Everyone knows each thread
of words lead there. Know the syllables of his name
and wait for them. We're all adroit with tears. And if
it wasn't him it would be the father who wasn't good
enough, who meant you never fitted in, his approval
needed even now to sanctify each move and thought.
Or else that lover, love of your life - who bruised you
called you, took you, made you, broke you then made
a ghost of you that lurked backchurched, was frowned
on. It's true you cannot abide the smell of lilies.
And how do you deal with all these things? You drink?
You don't meet anyone's eye or you forget to wash?
Dreamy, held apart, your bottom line's the film on your
eye each day, holding back the wash of living. But you
manage to get through, make friends, you function
and your heart still beats. If you look in mirrors
the infinity of reflections ends up there. You nearly
killed yourself, did you? Or you were on your knees
with grief? Even if you never say it
we know what it all comes down to.