Tonight, new moon rising
like an absent ghost,

I am the sentinel with her back
poised upright against the wall,

awaiting its drift of sleep,
and as well the sleep of two children,

their senses lost to world,
and the world lost to their senses.

I light a candle to find the light,
and click off the lights
so that I might find the dark.

But there is a creaking in the walls,
and on the heavy footing of the stairs,

and the burgeoning bruise on my bicep
does not hurt my skin,

but rather beneath it,

like beading drops of tears
which thread into the heart center,

as though the timid wavering
of a flame, enduring.

And it is tonight that assign myself
an imperfect mother, one who allows

a gentle parachute to drop
upon my home, all in pale pastels,

and lay its tender silk
upon all the anxious heads of these kin,
some gust of God, softening their angry fists.