a poem a day for a year #108

by Amy Turn Sharp


small terror rush
at thoughts of you
growing up so high
like weeds
like trees
thoughts of you not putting your face
close to mine anymore
sticky face hands
breath hot sweet purr
thoughts of you not wrapping arms around me
all day long
like a vice
like a lock
I don't crawl on my mother's lap anymore
envelope my father with kisses either
Do they have broken hearts?
Do they miss me like a little one?