I lay myself down
like a hapless tantrum,
inarticulate as the glittering of stone,
stormy flecks that grin doltishly.
Before I subject myself
to the emanation of love, the deluge of every spectrum.
Listening to their language-
the ardor of their despair, that makes
them impeccable to me,
like perfected children, stagnant and bold.
Scraped knees, the archive of blame.
I feel excessively motherly.
I dote on them, witless.
I will not correct them, when the jolt of
yielding appears foreign.
no one can be as monstrously happy as I can,
loving love like
yours is irritant.