a poem a day for a year #318

by Amy Turn Sharp


 

I made deep promises tonight on the cold wet pavement of a Whole Foods parking lot.
My little boy in my arms like bulk food. I've told him the way to make monsters go away is to imagine the safest places you know. My mothers arms. The 150 year old church of my childhood. The creek by his grandfather's house. The summer kitchen. Country roads guarded with flowers. The street where the trees touch in the middle. Those kind of places. He cries like a puppy because someone filled his perfect mind with horrible things at school. It will take days to process but he's more upset that he doesn't have my life. He tells me it's unfair that he's never lived a whole summer in a creek bed. And I hold him tighter and agree with him. You need the woods. I know they call to you too, siren at you like an ache. They do I whisper in his tiny nibble ear and people push carts by us like a highway roar. I tell him we'll do that when the sun warms us again like angels. I'll take you to the river. I'll take you to the woods. I'll show you what it's like to never grow up. To live like wonderboys. Shirtless kings of Appalachia.