My Hope

By: Llewellyn McKernan

lies sick

on a blanket

in a dark alley. Her body

swells, steel-lined

with regret.

her fevered hands, iron-

wet with sweat, her hair

strung with the blood

of holding on.

her lips, a licorice-colored

death, her lungs

ice-cast, lice crawling

among the sickening

splendor of her

flesh, eyes getting

smaller

and smaller.

the tiny bundle

of her tears, the slumber

she has yet to sleep. I feed her

the light, sifting it

through her

heart’s shrinking

sieve until it is gone.

She lives through the night.

This gives me hope.