A poem from the new book

by eatonhamilton

Here is a poem for Monday.


Our Terrible Good Luck


The spot inside the sick boy’s brain

burrowed there pale as a tuber

stubborn and engorged. His hair lifted

from his scalp like angel fuzz; his eyes

gleamed and struck us


We watched him

teeter to the lip of the nest, his skin traced blue with veins.

Fledgling, we thought, and gathered our children closer, under

shivering arms. The sick boy wanted Christmas

cards and he got thousands, maybe millions

a Guinness record, cards enough

to fill warehouses, from everywhere


There was his father, his mother

his sister and brother, the cards

and there was his brain cancer

spreading like a bleach spot

towards September and death


We almost

knew something dangerous that glowed

We almost saw reflections of silver in the mirror

But then we only saw ourselves, lustrous

as poster paints, our terrible good luck