I’m supposed to be writing a poem,

words arranged just so as to create

the same image in your head

as is in my own.

I’m supposed to be playing with grammar,

pretending I remember the rules

so I can feel superior when I break them

and say things like “Poetic license”

with an indignant shoulder raised.

I am instead in bed with my child,

watching the sun rise as she finally sleeps,

wincing with each blink because the eye she

sucker punched when she reached out to make

sure I was still there saw stars flash for

just a moment.

I’m supposed to be sleeping after playing with words

and making pretty pictures with them and

nothing else.

Instead, I lie in bed and watch the stars fade into the

rose blue dawn and the sun rises.

 

 

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