the short space of the place

like a tin can telephone
your voice travels to me
sweet and clear like true love
like teenage hearts
like bird songs

I am your mama
your love bomb
your rock and roll
your Saturday night
I want to spend days
counting the hairs 
on your head
weeks memorizing the
exact timbre of your baby voice
years listening to you
say my name

there is a map to the end of the world
to the place where we die without remorse
or regret
or still sadness
and the key
the clues
live in the mouth of a child
in the short space of the place 
we call home