Poetry by Hope Atlas

Over Again

Caressing her hair--
reassuring her of my presence,
I tried to soothe my trembling mother.

Whispering--don’t go,
she held me tight;
too afraid to be alone.

I had become the mother, she the child.
Her protector, her healer.

She had my undivided attention,
unconditional love.

We wanted to scream, to cry.
To escape.
We couldn’t.
Her need for that “white magic” was too strong.

She fell asleep at last.
She looked so peaceful.
Tomorrow she’d isolate herself,
want only sleep.

Then came her call toward destruction.
The “visit to the neighbors.” Her wonder cure.

And all would be fine--
for her. Until.

​


Twisted Tubes

Twisted tubes;
hypnotic, repetitive
clicks; the whine of
cold machines.
Cold sheets.

Buried secrets,
gasping for air--
empty holes in my childhood.
Addiction breaking the walls of our home,
robbing me of a mother’s care and
a father’s presence.

She’ll soon be leaving me alone again.

Shallow breathing,
body shaking,
eyes open,
begging, pleading.

Taking deep, deliberate breaths,
I exhale reassuring words,
acquiescing to her pleas
for forgiveness.
​
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Since the age of fifteen, Hope has been putting pen to paper. Writing is her lifeline and her voice. She writes her story through poetry, quotes and memoirs. When she’s not up late at night engrossed in her writing, you might find her knitting her signature multicolored twist scarfs! 

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