concretekiss

3am thunder goosed me awake.
My youngest one’s voice snuck under the sheets
There is big growling outside. Yes
I told her, took her hand to my belly.

Certain things children are born knowing.
Naps and baths are tools of oppression.
Crayons are appetizers as well as art supplies.
The floor is molten lava.

On my way out of sleep I passed myself
perched atop Mama’s tiger-oak dresser
hurriedly re-hanging the drapes I tore down
when I fell, in my attempts to inch along

the window ledge toward a strategically
placed footstool. Some things grown-ups
forget they once knew. How to imagine oneself out
of a rained-in house. I crouched by the door

to my son’s bedroom to hear him sing
his voice extravagant, brazen.
He was not waiting to fall back to sleep.
He was shaking a stadium, & the crowd was wild.