S.K. Bleakhouse Poems

S.K. Bleakhouse Poems

2The Old Cure For Depression

Best Poem of S.K. Bleakhouse

The Old Cure For Depression
To my sweet baby, face alight tonight
When I arrived. Smiling, no words yet said
by such a young one. In the evening light
his soft hair curled in rings on his head,
his eyes shown brown in the late glow of day,
his plump shape bursting from his too small clothes:
the nine-month old pants, tight socks in the . . .
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The fiftieth time she called, I hung up.
I thought 'I cannot take this any more.'
She left me six emails, a long letter,
a text and a voicemail. All these to say
couldn't I rest before I the baby came?

She is like a soft white feather pillow
Covering your face, so that you smother

My husband . . .
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