rocking chair

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.