A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
One night when I was eleven,
when my mother swung to hit me
I reached up and grabbed her hand
and was surprised at my own strength.
We both knew then
there would be no more beatings.
I walked out in the desert that night.
There was a warm and gentle wind.
An angel came up to me
from a clump of mesquite.
I could not quite see her
but she was soft. Her arms
were soft and she held me.
I knew then that I would be all right.
And in time, other angels came.
copyright 2014 by Doug Anderson.
published by permission of the author.