Toy Room

One son plays monster rage. His brother

plays ship crashed in a maze. We

are reading Hulk. We are reading

Theseus. White sails, green men,

bright women who give everything

and get nothing. The monster son

would never sail a ship into

a maze, but brothers are not

the same. They hear the same stories

and make different toys of them,

muscled figures in their fists, walls

of wood and magnets. Who knows

why a part of me always departs

this place, glides out the window

to rain and falling leaves, dresses

of wetness and gold. She floats

there, blessed by air, but when

she tries to slip back in, she can’t;

she hangs beyond the glass, panicked,

then bulging with fury. Days later

another part of me flies, into a maple

the color of platelets, and another into

bareness and sky. I’ve lost count of

how many fists are now pounding

my house, how many mouths are

braying how many cries, but here

inside, for now, my dear sons call to me

for their fallen castles, built again,

to find all the missing arrows.