I do want hope, belief
in intercession. That my children,
if in need, could expect bread.

To know them is to know the dirt
-engrained lines of their shoeless feet
as they belly sprawl over coloring books.

Just one state over, a blue newborn found
in a blue cooler beneath a speed limit sign.

This, exactly, has happened before: a life
as iteration of the facets of human cruelty,
what I read the first occurrence only
to me—tragedy sealed in Ziplocs
and four-wheel drive Suburbans parked
windows up in summer sun.

Blame it on the snake, or belts, or lineages
of fists, but my children are too real
to allow anyone such grace.

I watch them totter in pajamas.
They bicker about games and turns
and who looks at whom, dip
crackers in milk and brush crumbs off
lips with forearms as they dance,

make it hard to understand that as humans,
something monstrous lives in us all.
No parent can be innocent
and expect to keep their children
the same while they sing at bedtime.

After mine are tucked in, I lie
in bed under the fan as the dog
circles its rug. Tomorrow, again,
I look for new roads, choose one
that leads to more than that.