Year of writing 94. 4/30

4/4/12

Sometimes I forget
kids don't stop aging at 14,
that middle school isn't the endpoint.
Sometimes the kids come back,
wearing mansuits and womanmasks,
speaking with too much reason.

Then I remember that all these words
tumbling out of my mouth
over the heads of children
are more than dead weight,
sloughed off like dry skin.
They are firefly tattoos,
they are the piece of lead
broken off in the crease of your palm.