Parallel Play
The world watches as they hold
a funeral for their doll.
"Mommy, can you play with me? Let's play cars.
Let's race them."
I don't dare capture this moment, not even for
my small world to see.
not as so many of us wake up
reconciling childhoods
shaped
by predatory gaze.
She is naked, except for the soot.
She is smiling, face to the sky, eyes open.
She is inanimate. And, exalted.
She rests on the broken luggage handle
that now doubles as a coffin carrying
her to whatever may be
next.
"On your mark, get set, goooo!"
We don’t know where the finish line
is (or if there even is one).
Are we chasing speed or
distance? – I don’t know just as
i don’t know
if firing Her Justice counts as a win.
i thinkit’s one of those things that feels like a win but
isn’t. not really.
Four of them, then five – the most joyful
pallbearers, shepherding her with
pride and
honor and
giggles that signal
their age:
around three.
the same age as my son, I would guess.
“One more time,” he demands, returning
them to a row for another race
and we wonder
which will it be this time but
mostly
I’m in awe of the quick,
uninhibited stop-
and go- of a
giggle that
demands witnessing as
pleas to be seen, to be heard
echo across
the globe to go
ignored, manipulated,
redacted ----
So, even as –
(Especially as)
The moms hear their hearts
letting out gasps, feel
the stop-and-go of
caged panic
they pause:
they witness, they honor, they hold
the giggles
of children
innocent. spirited.
pure
(even as men
Masquerading as Kings
rape children
bomb children
detain and torture children
without impunity)
the giggles of children
vibrating, thunderous warning bells keeping us
hopeful and vigilant.
Fight Like A Mother: A Celebration of Resistance and Resilience.
A Mother’s Day Poetry Collection