Children of Divorce

pink

Full, quiet. The flowering vines
overtaking the deck stairs we rarely use.
Cicadas in the morning
and the easy rush of packing–
oh, they’ve gotten good at packing
for day trips and weekend trips
and the back and forth and forth
and back and every third night,
a routine as familiar now
as each of their hands
or halves of a brain
working in unison without effort.

Convention says how hard it is
for kids to have two homes–
but slice a piece of fruit
and see the cross-section shows
its built-in life force,
the husks and seeds, the shells
and holding places perfect
for the perpetuation of love.
I don’t know about hard, only
that they are secure inside
this skin of two parents
who stayed, not together but apart

saying: We belong to you
and your spaceship suitcase,
your favorite hat, your guitar case,
your school supplies and
ripening bodies and midnight
calls when the fort of blankets
becomes confusing in the dark–
I will come help you
climb down the ladder
into the tangle of comfort
that never leaves,
will never leave you.

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