ON THE ISLAND OF MY BED

                  For M. H.

When I lived
on the island of my bed
when north
held my sore head
and south
my hopeless feet

she used to come
through the door
holding tight
her worn out
little
yellow duck

she came
with a song
or a story to tell
with something
in her pocket
or she came silent
with sleep

she would lay it out
all there for me:
music
treasures
tales
and dreams

and for the first
time
in the day
I could fly away
from the island
of my bed.
 

by Carmen Alfonso   from her book of poems    'On the island of my bed: Living with Lyme Disease'

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