They hollow you out. Their colored plastic shovels working, scraping the bottom of the sandbox. Still, you can’t say it. What are you doing? I ask my two-year old. My back turned, stirring something. Playing with knives, he says. His enunciation newly honed, proud blade. Look out the window. The suburbs’ orderly paved quiet. The streets named for tribes long since extinct. Last week, when I left a bone-handled knife on the stove, and the flame caught, I stood there, mouthing Fire. Fire. As though saying it I’d set the house ablaze.
Eleanor Stanford Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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