There Are Places Where Children Dwell

There are places children dwell—  
no letters to Santa,  
no cookies or milk on Christmas Eve—  
just feathers on windowsills,  
pretending they’re posts from mom.

There are places where children dwell  
who hum the first sung lullaby  
from their mother’s doting throat  
instead of prayers that ask for  
sleep and their souls to keep.

Places where children don't  
keep their toys in treasure chests  
or play grown-ups in finery  
but keep hopes of reunion  
half ajar in their chests.

Places where they don't  
spin and dance until they fall  
but sit still, dizzy with grief,  
watching silk roses in vases,  
knowing the last daisy petal  
in their hand will wilt  
before “she loves me” comes.

Coat pockets empty—  
lint turned inside-out,  
gumdrops fading on the tongue,  
bubble gum, jangling dimes  
saved for the sweetest things.

Where a house lacks a playroom,  
a glittered box that holds tinsel stars  
that can be stitched into their shoelaces—  
just a quiet kitchen where no one says hello  
and folded aprons to cry into.

Still they believe that day will come—  
and it will, long after they’ve left this place—  
where their tears will bloom into lullabies  
sung gently to their newborn children  
in the dark— in the voices of other mothers.