I drop our daughter off at your house
After my weekend visit.
The small talk we make at the foot of the stairs
Just isn't easy, now is it?
I've gotten so good at avoiding discomfort
Weighing each question I ask.
Meanwhile our child on a pile of toys
Watches from behind a mask.
Once when the wound was still throbbing and sore,
The child made us play a game.
"You stand here. And mom, stand here."
"Interesting game. What's it's name?"
"Now walk over here and stand next to dad."
"No 'cause I know what you're doing."
The game was Our Wedding. We were its pawns.
Her parents she was regluing.
Or with salt and pepper shakers
She'd reenact the scenes
From movies where weddings are thwarted by villains,
While the jar of oregano keens.
Then it was hugging. I'd hug her goodbye
And with her arms still warm
She'd instantly rush to her mother's embrace
And like a magician perform
A secret incantation there,
Not even a whisper she'd risk.
Then rope us both in, to hug as a trio,
And off to her bedroom she'd whisk.
That was fine for a while to embrace as a group
If it helped while her feelings healed.
But soon adult notions asserted themselves
And all tenderness was repealed.
The child secretly scrutinized us
As we hugged at every parting.
But as of now, into your arms
I'm no longer pathetically darting.
The next time she'll witness us hugging each other
Will be when her grandfather dies.
It forms a critique of the world that the kid
Must see with unbonneted eyes.
Her toy owl watches me from the stairs
As I nervously chat with her mom.
How did they know to put blinders on falcons
To keep the predators calm?
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