When his friends came camping but no one got up to help with the breakfast or pack the lunch. So no, we could not do that daylong hike. How they ran out into the dark because their dad told them they could visit the lake. How no one gave them a time to come back or a marker to stop at. How my daughter tells me I am the thing in the way of her freedom.
How my hands shake. Oh the tiny blue bird that is my heart. How mistaken we were
about what mothering means. To father is to lie down for a while in the grass.
See me build the fire, see me say the protection spells. The words fall like soldiers from my mouth.
Oh the incantations. One day you might thank me. Or I could die waiting.
But I am not supposed to say this. A martyr isn’t a martyr if they say that they are.
And isn’t that what is still required.