By Ellior Maskowitz
Behind rocking chairs,
Tucked; sniffles leavened and fluffed
Over a pan of self-soothe that couldn’t yet see.
Pink birthday cakes glare from behind glossy photographs.
Floating with helium-filled after-school
Voices tether with each other for sport on mind’s asphault
They’ve grown up; grown leisurely in woven burlap hammocks.
Mothers would be disappointed to hear them banter.
Not knowing the tops of kitchen counters meant the gentle warmth of pink cake,
Or the sharp ridges of the knife that cuts it.
I think I still hide behind rocking chairs.