Let the Child Go
She was still as fresh as morning
but I was becoming weary,
as a restless night that cannot sleep.
I tried to say goodbye one winter
when snow was falling
heavy on my shoulders,
but my coat was thick and long
and she was sewn tightly into the hem.
I unpicked each one of those neat stitches
but she clung,
as though onto the edge
of a wavering world
and her tears fell like acid
onto blue scars that tracked my veins.
I remember the moment I cut her loose
I heard my heart whimpering
like a lost child
and when I searched for her,
calling her name,
it froze in the air.
She sometimes comes to me now,
rubbing smiles into old wounds
and on long winter days
I breathe warmth onto her name.
And when I look onto a spring day
and see a sleepy butterfly
hurrying to catch a breeze,
I want to lift up my skirts and run.
© Christine Magee
