This, here, this is often not what I think it is,

this magazine in my face and right behind it

a little boy, naked, in my lap. He peers over,

has smiling eyes, thinks not in any way of clothes.

I desperately read to work up Muse,

and he has never been separated from his,

sings as the words come to mind, lives it out.

I am no longer a child, take my sons to Walmart so professionals can video us while we shop. They make film of kids looking at toys because grown-ups don’t always know what the good toys are or how to sell them.

And there I killed part of my oldest. I saw it leave him, the part that holds up his shoulders.

“You mean, grown-ups don’t know how to play? Mama, do you not know how to play?” I tell him that it now takes work to play.

In the video, he’ll push Buzz Lightyear’s buttons, hear his brothers laugh, and it will make him sad.

This, here, is often not what I think it is: the bright quilt covering my legs, my red pajamas, hot coffee, old painting, stack of books.

It’s more of what the child knows; they know the strange fruits from the strong, careless trees, songs of God garden,  the visionary realm of lower vocabulary. Maybe we have lived there. If eternity exists with God, maybe it swings around on us. Maybe the beginning is the end.

Yes, they wear fallen skin, but they still wear it exposed. Maybe innocence (far from ignorance) is the channel. Putting down the books, hearing the voice of Friend, I think of what it means to be uncovered. Eyes smiling, now I can write.