|Apr/May 2014 Poetry Special Feature|
Image courtesy of the British Library Photostream
I have no anger left in me
though it was my trump card for decades.
After the first cataclysmic death, forgiveness
wound like a ribbon around my heart,
every sorry soul who came a welcomed visitor
deserving food and blankets, all my best dishes
steaming on the table, every candle illuminated,
all lanterns lit and never a question
of where have you come from
and why are you mine to love now.