MY MELANCHOLY BABY
languishes
in a sea of sadness
until I touch her.
She blossoms
like paperwhites
on my windowsill
in morning sunlight.
She’s doomed, stunned
and weary, wears a mask
of an imperfect bird.
She grew up on a farm
with a mother who
treated her like just
one more goat
waiting to be fed.
I extinguish the flames
of suicidal ideation,
a poultice for her soul.
She smiles. I show her
how to sit still.