Lantern Fish

A Poetry and Travel Blog


I shut the door,
Bolt the windows
And I hide.
They used to call me their mother,
Now I am their goldmine.
I am cut and bruised,
I can’t be rescued,
So I run for my life.
As they search for me,
Teeth bared, claws unsheathed,
My children come for me.

I am tired, I am scared
But I am their mother
So I must care
For them despite my ordeals,
Despite what has become of me.
So I open the door just a crack,
When I hear the howls of the pack
Turn into something different.
It seems they’ve turned on someone else.
Oh, they’ve turned on themselves,
Ripping at each-other,
As though they were different.

Oh, I want to save you, my children,
I truly do,
But how do I save you
From that which you inflict on yourselves?
I can’t save you if you don’t save me,
I no longer have the strength.
But you cannot see that
And I can’t make you understand
How much I need you,
How I need your strength
To let me heal you again.

But the big, strong beasts
Can no longer hear me,
Nor can they see me cry,
As the wounds they’ve inflicted on me
And on themselves
Make my heart ache.
No, they can hear me no more.
I am their mother no more.
And yet, I can see a pup
Sniffing in my direction,
Distracted from the war,
Stumbling as it makes its way
To my door.

“Tell me, little one,
Can you hear me?”
I ask without a voice,
And it tilts its head.
Perhaps I am not abandoned yet.
“Tell me, little one,
Can you rescue me?”
I ask, afraid to hope,
And it takes a step in.
Perhaps I am not beyond saving yet.



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