Work of the Gods

Sleeping but never long enough, waking,

doubting their new world the babies cry, 

to be nursed, soothed, swaddled 

into blankets, into arms loving but unsure. 

But months pass and letoan arms grow 

confident, more certain, charmed.

Until protean toddlers replace the smooth-cheeked infants 

to become forceful in ways startling and angering 

as they reject, refuse, spit, hit, kick, throw, demand. Their 

color high, laughing like banshees, dragging full diapers 

they snatch and run, seemingly more away than to. 

Mothers weather those aeolian storms and stay vigilant, 

steadfast if they’re able, to referee heated playdates, 

mop up carnage to elbows, chins and knees, dry kindergarten 

fear-tears. On then into the battles of homework wars 

and bedtime hours, phone no phone, the internet, the slights 

of school cliques, in or out. But they’ve got it covered, 

think they’re getting somewhere.

Till the real vulcan work begins. Freedom, how much freedom? 

Goth eyes, pink hair, sagging jeans, the stink of jock straps. Tiktok,

back-talk, birth control, so many tears, the art of cagey lying. 

Hearts broken, the wafting smell of pot, sketchy new friends, 

grades on the slide, miss molly, meals missed, curfews blown. 

Columbine, Parkland. All talk is friction, words meant to comfort, 

wound, though moments of orphean wonder keep everyone guessing.

Friend of Pasithea, you think you’re through when 

the calendar turns them eighteen. Oh but the joke’s on you 

when you realize that dropping them off at college guarantees 

you only one thing, that further out in the world the dangers 

are quieter, shrewder, gummier, and all you can do is nod 

and try to keep smiling as you stand at the door, waiting, till 

they cross back over your threshold as full-blown adults.