in the eras of maternal dark, the roots had to be guarded.
no one could question the path of their thirst.
in a haze of familiarity yet devoid of insight,
they all knew how to counter the paralysis of air.
children got busy.
they discovered projects abandoned for years:
drawers to be evacuated;
photographs to be perused, avoided, and arranged;
a white bowl to be filled with dapper fruit
and suddenly brought to bear upon an unsuspecting end table;
traces of velvet to restrain curtains from themselves.
creativity spent, the children would inevitably return to the mundane,
though not without fear. would their actions be misinterpreted?
their work seen as derision or accusation?
how would they know until it was all over?
terrified of the outcome,
the children put aside the mops and sponges
and slunk into dark rooms of their own.
who are all these little ones,
descended upon me from up north,
wrung from my fickle womb.
what are they looking for and what can i give?
once i knew the meaning of day without night.
i could wring silence from the most stubborn wail.
my touch was renowned.
now i stay with surface and response that i can foresee.
with polish, i fight the demons of disintegration and
create tapestries of dustlessness.
only in this scoured sweep can i
reach the expanse of comfort
that beckons to me over the kerchief of my hunched neighbor.
i offer no apologies; this is what is best.
listen, it is good to see so many familiar faces.
but this is hardly the place for you and
these strange and unprepared children.
