Awake Unquiet Heart

Small Heart sits, surrendering to grief and her riving.

She spits and foams.

“Little girls don’t look like that!”

Small Heart presses his eyes deeper into impervious elbow creases,

with salty tears the spindrift of her raving red-lipped sea.

I beg you rest easy in that darkness, small Heart. For we will awake unquiet soon.

Safety seen in sinking further, small Heart draws a breath; her rip tide surges down.

She swells.

What would your parents say? What would all the parents say?

Small Heart’s bowed and blue-black deepwater silence sits beside small shoes

shuffling towards the big blanket sky and its free air.

I beg you wrap your arms around this sorrow, small Heart.

For we will awake unquiet soon.

Small Heart settles with the silt, yielding

lungs,

throat,

jaws,

tongue,

lips,

voice

to wrathful waters.

She roils and seethes.

DRAW YOURSELF IN A DRESS OR YOU’LL SIT HERE UNTIL YOU DO.

Someone rises, but not small Heart. Gasping at the surface of slowly softening waters,

innocent and injured, apart and party, his protector picks a crayon and puts it to paper.

I beg you hold fast, small Heart. For we will awake unquiet soon.