A mother's struggle with meth
addiction and recovery by Kimberly Wollenburg
THE RED SON
I LOVE your faces I saw the many
I drank your milk and filled my mouth
With your home talk, slept in your house
And was one of you.
But a fire burns in my
Under the ribs where pulses thud
And flitting between bones of skull
Is the push, the endless mysterious command,
"I leave you behind--
You for the little hills and the years all alike,
You with your patient cows and old houses
Protected from the rain,
I am going away and I never come back to you;
Crags and high rough places call me,
Great places of death
Where men go empty handed
And pass over smiling
To the star-drift on the horizon rim.
My last whisper shall be alone, unknown;
I shall go to the city and fight against it,
And make it give me passwords
Of luck and love, women worth dying for,
I go where you wist not
Nor I nor any man nor
I only know I go to
Grappling against things
wet and naked."
There is no pity of it and no blame.
None of us is in the wrong.
After all it is only this:
You for the little hills
and I go away.