Your alive is crouching

somewhere under a swing-set

giggling but will come

when you call its name.

Go find your alive, they tell me,

but this is not hide-and-go-seek.

My alive has been kidnapped.

My alive is in a stranger’s trunk

gagged and unconscious.

My alive’s face is on flyers

in everyone’s mailbox,

have you seen this person?

My alive’s name is MISSING

in big bold red letters.

Officer, I haven’t seen my alive

in seven months.

Please bring it home.

Bring it home safe and hurt

and bothered and hateful

of the world, bring it home.


8 thoughts on “Alive

  1. This poem leads me to think about my own “alive” and what’s gone on over the recent months and years with her. She’s been through flood, fury, betrayal, torture and salvation. She’s back, at last. But, as you say, she’s “bothered and hateful of the world”. But she’s also joyous and has renewed faith in… certain things and select people: Poetry. Poets. These two, I now have exquisite and unshakable faith in.

    Your poem walks into my heart and sits down to have tea and conversation with me. This feels personal. This is what I call good.

    1. Alice, your alive might be the strongest one we know.

      I smiled all while reading that. I am truly so lucky to have people who respond to my poetry in the ways you do.

      My poem is enjoying tea with you 😉

      Thanks always,


  2. “Bring it home safe and hurt…”
    turns the thing on its head
    spins it ’round and
    puts it too (?!) bed.
    This boils and simmers…
    My alive is stirring
    and struggling
    to the surface…

    A wake-up call
    for poets. Beaut Nat.

Thoughts? I love those.

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