Angel Amy

Curled up on the carpet,
I peel paint off the walls,
The metal cord breaks my fingers,
While phone card minutes tick away.
Girls shrieking in the halls
Drown out the words
But not my father's meaning.

"Born Blind," he says,
"Never could make a sound,
Except rare moments
When she was strong.
And she had a way of showing love,
And pleasure,
With only an infant's smile."

I swallow hard,
Taking more than I had
Bargained for.

"When Amy went away,
We closed her bedroom door.
Didn't open it for months."

Blood disease,
I think he says,
Some word like,
Septicemia?
After the tube landed in her lung
By mistake.

I hear him catch his breath.
"I never understood why God,
Wonderful God,
Merciful God,
Made my baby broken.
But now,
She's my angel Amy,
Free from her twisted body.
And maybe she died
For no other reason
Than so we could have this conversation.

"She looks over me,
And I know she looks over you,
And she will help you do
What you feel you need to do.
I know she will help you write
This poem."