Or so says the mother who gives her child
a scare, or rather a tiny theater
of scares, an unexpected laugh to scatter
the mask of her fingers, to make the world
the mended mirror of her face, the first,
as the years will tell him, he learns to miss,
to mystify with a prospect of loss,
a silent promise that never goes missing.
It survives. And what could be better
than the little thrills they give each other.
For without the seeing that believes,
our sun lost behind the curtain, the day
goes headless, when out of nothing it arrives,
ablaze, to break the windows of their eyes.
—from Rattle #35, Summer 2011