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.
mywordpool 
POETRY! Be still my heart!
Wow, thank you! 😀
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.
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,
Natalie
Pass the sugar, Honey? My tea is enjoying poems with you. 😉
I’m glad to hear your smile.
“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.
I appreciate this so much 🙂 Thanks as always for your wonderful, inspiring comments.
Thank YOU so much for your wonderful, inspiring poetry….we could go on like this forever, you know…