Poems October 1993
Lost
At three, living in the rented
house on Winette Street, I strayed
three blocks away, and the word lost
crashed in my ears like the sea
until a neighbor led me back
to my house and my mother.
When Doctor Clark telephoned
about the hourglass-shaped lesion
in my liver, I was sixty-three
and lost. Jane and I lay
on the painted bed weeping
and hugging. Only the body
of the other—rocking,
hopeless, wet-faced—provided us house.
A Message from the Editors
Support our crucial work and join us in strengthening the bonds of civilization.
Your donation sustains our efforts to inspire joyous rediscoveries.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 12 Number 2, on page 36
Copyright © 2024 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/1993/10/lost