Slow Children at Play

All the quick children have gone inside, called

by their mothers to hurry-up-wash-your-hands

honey-dinner’s-getting-cold, just-wait-till-your-father-gets-home-

and only the slow children out on the lawns, marking off

paths between fireflies, making soft little sounds with their mouths,

ohs, that glow and go out and glow. And their slow mothers flickering,

pale in the dusk, watching them turn in the gentle air, watching them

twirling, their arms spread wide, thinking, These are my children,

thinking, Where is their dinner? Where has their father gone?

 

Cecilia Woloch, Late (BOA Editions, 2004)