Pavement, poem by Heather Sullivan

We walked to the bak­ery on the cor­ner, you
and I hand in hand. I’d promised you a cookie,

and myself a chance to clear my head from the
work­day strife. My longer com­mute used to

give me time to rage against the dying of the
light long before I walked through the front

door, enough time to morph back into mama,
the woman who draws bats with you and

the­o­rizes when is too late for Play-Doh. Less
a tran­si­tion time now, I am soon­er home to you

and to the encom­pass­ing sense that all is right
with the world when your hair falls in front of

your eyes and you spin in front of me on the
side­walk. We heard nois­es in the trees and made

up a Hal­loween song, and I told you not to be
scared of the dark, but to love it the way I used

to before I came to antic­i­pate evil and the way it
tastes in the back of your throat. I want you to

own your free­dom for all time, pause the hour
hand and not look back behind you. Leave that

to me for now, let them bite at my heels and nose
my flesh. You run ahead, and spin again for mama.

sullivanHeather A. Sul­li­van's work has appeared or is forth­com­ing in Chiron Review, Open Let­ters Month­ly, Free State Review, Yel­low Chair Review and Ygdrasil. She is an edi­tor at Live Nude Poems and main­tains a blog at http://​www​.lady​janead​ven​tures​.blogspot​.com. She lives with her fam­i­ly, includ­ing the FCAC Pro­pri­etor, in Revere, MA.

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