The Lost Child
Bobbi Sinha-Morey
​
Across from my window
I saw the red glow in
the dark of a match's
flame and I wished hot
molten acid would sear
the smoker's skin. How
could he, the man with
the cigarette, and not
anyone else care that
I'd lost my child in the
snow? And it came so
fast and heavy there was
no sign of him except for
the torn arm of his teddy
bear a dog must've bitten.
It was five a.m. and I'd
just walked home from
my night shift; he'd been
sound asleep before I'd
left him. A three year old
doesn't run away, someone
must've abducted him. I
wanted to curse the policeman
who did nothing about him,
walk the streets not caring
how numb my feet would
get and how frozen my
bones would be just to find
him. I called my only friend
who rushed over to see me,
and for three days I ate
nothing. My solace when
my friend wasn't around
to see was a box locked
away in a drawer, hidden
under the staircase. Inside
was the very first picture
ever taken of him and
a diamond solitaire bracelet
my deceased husband had
given me. Stealing away
inside my room, I curled
into a tight little ball,
pressing them fiercely
against me, damning God
for doing this to me.