They Said

    by Larina Warnock

Setting him upright, hips symmetrical

with the cushioned supports

of his wheelchair, I marvel

at his eyes, depths of purity

so far beyond my comprehension.

They said he would not live.

Pressing the tube inward, a button click

and turn to lock

and pouring liquid nutrition, I marvel

at his hands, depths of strength

so far beyond my comprehension.

They said he would not reach for us.

Resting my hand on his tremoring knee,

curled toes tapping

metal footrests, I marvel

at his cheeks, depths of happiness

so far beyond my comprehension.

They said he would not smile.

Pushing him to the school bus, ramp

down and waiting to lift

him toward the future, I marvel

at his laugh, depths of wisdom

so far beyond my comprehension.

They said he would not know.

Tucking him in, elbows bent

and fists curled

against his pillow, I marvel

at his growth, depths of persistence

so far beyond my comprehension.

They said he would not live.

© 2010 Larina Warnock

Larina Warnock writes poetry & prose from Corvallis, Oregon where she lives with her husband and four children.  Her work, which often details the healing journey of her family, has appeared as a top ten winner in Writer's Digest's poetry competition, Wheelhouse Magazine, The Oregonian, Space & Time Magazine, and many others.  Her chapbook, Guitar Without Strings, is scheduled for publication by The Lives You Touch Publications in 2010.  She serves as the site administrator for the poets.org discussion forum, editor of The Externalist, and chair of Writers on the River.

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