Literature
pulses
i will look back
at the doors again.
there is no safety here,
i have not
ever expected it.
always on fire,
each outing a breath
of heirs
shouted at,
covered up,
pale.
when you are fire
they see you,
unfairly kept under
stares.
parenting through
rise and run,
unaware of the
distance and unsure
how high
the soles climb.
open not, doors. be kind.
be sturdy and
unassailable, not pearly
and failing.
keep that lock
bit fast between dusk
and the children.
the sons
and the daughters
have grown,
while we passively drone
on about our own
plagues.
the smear
of old blood
we watched dry
steady drips.
i will look back
with my own fire,
my own mem