Trust

Catherine Phil MacCarthy
Fast asleep and no letting go you grip my finger tight,
the hurt is gone, breathing low, now lay you in the cradle.
r tip-tow into bed and then
all of a sudden at mid-night
in the dark the house is quiet hot cries break out.
I reach to hold you
and your eyes are open
tears fall by window light
one by one in accusation.
Page 74, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 26