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All the Needs
All the little tumblers near the green pitcher, the nesting bowls, the rattle of spoons. All the mittens lost behind the radiator, the rush and return for what's forgotten- lunch bag, book, stark on the kitchen counter. All the faces too near the screen, Ed Sullivan, my father barking, "Sit back, sit back." All the blessings then the beds, all the needs left until morning. How could there be any secrets? The clay pinch pots, the coils of snakes. All the books with Scotch-taped pages, snubbed down crayons, missing colors. All the homemade store-bought clutter, all the seedlings in the yard. The endless cycle of our clothing, mother folding on the couch. All the longing to be older, all the borrowed, broken, gone. The closets, rifled in anger. When we were finished, what was left? All the diaries read by flashlight, the circle dimming, batteries dead. All the silhouettes by nightlight, the sound of footsteps, then of sleep.