My Child I've Lied

He poisons my mind with his gentle words,
Painting masterpieces before my eyes,
Weaving melodies into rosy veils,
And leading me after him into
His imagined paradise.
No matter that I am ill.
No matter that my sight is failing,
Or my breathing growing thin.
Though I am imprisoned by the thick coverlets
And chained by the cool salves
And tart potions,
I could just as easily be walking
Through his youthful garden of maples.

His magic is a child's hope,
Blindly, stubbornly leading me to believe
That I am well,
That the garden is flourishing,
The roses blooming.
"Can you smell them?" he asks,
His small hands closing around mine
And I nod,
Because he believes, I can too.

In his garden music is drink
And the written word is man's primary sustenance.
Beneath the brambles of wild baby's breath
He reads poetry from exotic lands,
Brushing my face now and again
To make sure that I am keeping up with him.
In his garden nothing dies,
But somewhere inside of him
I can see the beginnings of a new fear.
He knows now.

The kindest poison,
Is the sort that lulls its lover into a palace of dreams,
Before the walls of the body collapse.
Looking down at my precious child,
I see the first dawning realization in his eyes,
The disbelief that his garden
Possesses thorns as well as fragrant petals.

"I'll be here for you forever," I say,
Brushing his hair from his face.
"I love you. I'll always be with you."
He leans into my touch,
"I love you too mama."
I break into a fit of coughs,
And try to hold back the tears,
Because I know that I have just poisoned my child,
The way that he has just poisoned me.

-Lauren Hatch 2006