Two Moths
 

When the children of Hamelin
returned from the mountain
they weren’t the children

stolen from town
by the Piper’s tunes and rhythms— 
Ariel, Raphael, Pavel,
Tina, Toby, Susan,

and my son, dark-eyed
ten-year-old  
hand in hand
with a moody girl
of seven,

and the cavern door
closing behind them.

I called their Jailer,
offered him silver
and gold to free them
in any form at all.

I suppose they crawled,
tiny and brown,
through a crack
in the mountain wall,

and flew, lace-winged,
into my kitchen where
they flitter, feed on my flour,
and mate.

I’ve watched them for hours.  

 


​
Two Children On a Porch, With Woodbine

 
He lays his arm along the shoulder of his two-year-old sister. 
         
            “It doesn’t matter what you teach a boy,” said Winston Churchill,

He believes she is the child most treasured.
         
            “… as long as he doesn’t like it.”

She thinks her brother is the favored one.

             The boy stood on the burning deck

Neither, in the future, will befriend the other’s spouse, or frequent
            the other’s house, until,

            The pipes, the pipes are playing

orphaned and alone, they are surprised

            Boys and girls together

by a picture of two children side by side

             Me and Mamie O’Rourke

with long strands of woodbine all around.


-first appeared in The Lake