a poem a day for a year #9

by Amy Turn Sharp


I read Derrida to my preschooler

it makes him tired

we sit on the sofa with our bare feet touching

and my words pound new memories onto his frontal lobes

this is my mother he thinks

mother

woman

soft

round

she reads to me

she smells nice

textual building blocks

we deconstruct our day

we tear it down

we sound it out

 

He falls asleep

outside the text

on the pillowy history of moments ago