marooned at the front window,
the little boy stands in shadow behind
silent, patient as the mouth
that knows the words are right
even before they are uttered.
Mother waits for a daughter
a roamer, a wanderer, feet
that take the child far, far from home
into the undergrowth, the forest
the realm of wolf and wildebeest.
Mother’s right hand crinkles quietly
the Venetian that blocks her view,
eyes moist with fear or revelation
study the street lit
by the flicker of the florescent.
The occasional growling car
passes, voices cry out – who is calling?
To whom?
Children about to drown
or in the act of discovery?
Cars are horrible emissaries
of the devil; steal keys and promises,
carry children to places
a parent cannot journey
even those that know the path well.
The daughter’s voice is heard, the echo of her appearance,
mother releases the Venetian, breaks the spell,
I turn and flee back to bed,
head on pillow, slip into a dream
I hardly know or understand.
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