Lost
Frances Roberts

​​ A deferred destruction of the pond set the snare
encircled his life like a fish trap
gauzy and alluring.
The momentum was a phone call.
Halfway out the door his mother scurried back
to get the phone extension –
her sister’s call from London.
A fuse of communication delays –
blips and echoes – I’ll ring back.
 
He waddled out the door
his red ball bouncing ahead of him
dropped clutched dropped again…
mind of its own – tottered to the brink.
Red splash of ball
spears of water light
goblins from below stole his breath
his face among the reeds
the red ball floating absurdly close.
 
His parents prayed with frenzy
don’t let him die.
His beauty lost to them unthinkable:
his mother’s lips  his father’s eyes….
He breathes again
but words and steps will never grace
those vivid eyes nor even tantrums –
just a shuddering little cry.
 
He smiles sometimes they think –
beneath the black curled lashes glimpse
the man he was programmed to be.
Time passes heavy with recrimination.
Each day they tear small pieces from each other
and offer them to the god of sorrows.