Recall the Carousel

Recall the carousel. Its round and round.

Its pink lights blinking off and on.

The children’s faces painted garish colors against

an institutional wall. And the genetics. The

The carousel? Do you recall? As if

we were our own young parents suffering again

after so many hundreds of hours of bliss.

And even the startling fact that

what had always been feared might come to pass:

A familiar sweater in a garbage can.

A surgeon bent over our baby, wearing a mask.

But surely you recall

how happily and for how long

we watched our pretty hostages go round.

They waved at us too many times to count.

Their dancing foals. Their lacquered mares. Even

a blue-eyed hunting hound

was still allowed back then.