By my own volition I run to you
when you cry out,
not cultivated shouting for attention,
but shamed to be interrupting.
A sufficient distance to having me
imagine life without you.
The plant aggrieved and appearing
to have received your head,
a degrading fall into a ceramic pot:
the blinkers that this disease
puts on your feet,
but my heart buoyant
that you are bleeding
Pen Reid, Poet of the Month February 2016