Swinging between them both, their big hands engulfing <br />my pudgy little ones. <br /> <br />underneath the rainbow tunnel, holding <br />my breath. redwoods emerge <br />on the other side—good, full. <br />tide; conches rolling in the tide: <br />flow, ebb beneath desperate, <br />grasping toes. <br />the reflection momma’s ring casts, <br />prisms dancing, miniature ballerinas <br />on the naked walls daddy would never let us mar. <br />wearing that ugly, ill-fitting <br />purple frilled shirt and I smile, teeth too naked <br />and exposed, meeting momma’s eyes in the mirror: <br />Thank you. It’s special. <br />mini earthquakes in his arm as he holds <br />my hand. because I am special. <br />a halo of cotton candy, pale pink against a bright blue sky, <br />daddy lifting me onto the carousel. <br /> <br />big king-sized bed empty when daddy’s in india or australia or china. <br />the pillows cradling <br />his profile, reeking of sweat but deceivingly cold. <br />big cities. cement towers and dwarfs. <br />grown men sleeping in twin beds. <br /> alone—twin bed—big city. <br />momma growing older as she hears <br />his voice; miles of old gray telephone cord enslave her wrists. <br />weeping on the toilet, grasping <br />toilet paper in a foolish attempt to erase <br />raw red half moons. <br /> alone-bathroom-big house. <br />it’s a circus. <br /> little girl on the dancing lippazan <br /> all flashes of white hooves, white mane, stepping <br /> high. but it’s so hard <br /> to balance. <br /> <br />they weren’t supposed to <br />let go.<br /><br />Katie Finley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/why-they-sleep-in-separate-rooms/
