Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Because I’m Not Allowed to Talk to Children


The pain begins. It’s always
                                               in somebody
                            else’s
               face
first.
        I want to be
                            unhappy
like that couple
                            clinging
                                         desperately
and serve my children
                                     safety in the
       endless woods.

Here too far North
                                for the graffiti
they can make like
                                there are standards
                                                                 still
and towns, and I
                             fall into their spell
                                                            so readily—
I cheer for sons
                          who cannot throw the ball
pull daffodils for daughters
                                                who no longer
                          tolerate ballet
                                                 to get an ice cream cone.

I hear the explanations
                                       —everything that’s lost
                  from father’s mouth to son,
and see kids in
                  sharp dominance of voice
because there’s only
                                     so much pride
                 and adoration
to go around.

But then, amid the ducks
                                           and keening bleachers
I hear some parents talk
                                         of dismal holidays
because the rainbow
                                  canyons
                                                  and waterfalls
                 like emeralds
       could not be shared.

Their voices lower as I walk by
                                                     and despite the trickling
of the stream, the shush
                                         of distant motors
there’s still some
                             solitary thing, some
breathing.

1 comment:

erin said...

jesus. i'm not quite sure. do i have to be? but it isn't about determinants, is it, but feelings, intuitions. i feel. i intuit. i'm not quite sure but do i have to be?

are we lost?

were we ever found?

beautiful and painful, poignant, with no answers, as it is.

xo
erin