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.

x

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.

Because,

no one can be as monstrously happy as I can,

loving love like

yours is irritant.