Poem: May 31, 2019

Parenthood

I've learned to still my inner
voice when the children are away.
After twenty-two years, it's
an act of self-preservation
as much as it is editing.

So easy to be obsessive-
Gollum with his Precious,
Gatsby's love of Daisy-
so easy to ask the dark
questions when the house
is too silent, when the kids
are more absent than I like.

Of course you're not screaming
into your gag in the trunk
of some maniac's car. Of course
you aren't trying to outrun
a tornado or drinking bleach
on a dare, or even just crying
silently in your bed, wishing
somehow, impossibly, I would
hear you, sense your need.

To think that way is madness.
No sane person would
tell themselves such stories.

You learn not to tell yourself'
such stories even if
they itch you like a scab.