The trouble we keep

They are idiots, fumbling and dim-witted,
ignorant of the carefully timed opening
closed, inopportune, and dumb–all their senses
numb to the obvious unfolding
despite all the evidence that nature affords
to those with enough good fortune
to penetrate the meticulous overlapping
of flesh and mind and spirit.

They are desperate and stumbling
stammering, incoherent, mumbling,
always somewhere in the dark and bound
by circumstance or obligation
for a sharp and unexpected corner,
the tender separations
only we can see, their mangled frames
muscling their way into the narrow aisle
of our hearts, as if they have nowhere else
to rest their weary, calloused minds,
searching always for a soft and gentle space
that will let them be seven again,
whole and unfractured, nestling
their heads into the doughy rescue
of a fictional mother.

When they find us at last
it’s as though their spirits
are worn already, waiting for us
to smooth the ragged and torn,
the wrinkled corners, placing the untidy
childhood they have
brought to bed.