I Want —

I want children to play upon my grave.

Fragile kites let out on lines held in sticky hands,

Pockets weighty with throwing pebbles;

Ant-army marches across greenest grasses,

Knees drawn high and feet bare

to the first timid days of summer.

Childish voices, noisy and forgetful

of the solemn nature of

life, six feet below the living.


On Cassatt’s Breakfast in Bed

What are you thinking of, Mother Dear,

as you clasp your cherubic child before

you and gaze off into the distance

between courses of honeyed tea and buttery toast?

The movements of the moon?

Mathematical proofs?

Mycology and mineralogy?

Or the sweet deliciousness of another few minutes of sleep,

so you can dream you live in a world where

mothers are the engineers of their own mornings?