Home with the purring of the cats
the rocking of my young son in the window
Is this normal?
The azaleas and rhododendrons, purple, pink and white.
There is leaf rot, curling evergreen leaves.
In the blue room, teal actually, I wait for my husband
to save me from our child, from thoughts that all I do
may be hopeless.
The rocking is like the tick tock of a pendulum,
a silent metronome in the blue room.
As darkness settles, I remind my son that he is hungry,
that the word dog does not apply to cats,
that shit is not pretty on the bathroom’s yellow walls,
that little ninja warriors do not inhabit the television.
My son keeps the distance from me, escapes my arms,
stares out the window at the great pine tree darkening
like a carboniferous etching,
rocking, rocking, rocking.
Lucy Simpson, 12/2012