Pressed into a corner, she could not decline.
At the moment of greatest vulnerability,
was there another more blameworthy than herself?
For instance, the parent that had run to the store.
The emptiness of spare rooms, inhabited only
by furniture. That she liked pockets, hiding
away in a corner with a board book in hand?
How was she to know the welcome from
the unwelcome advance? Memory, such
an unreliable witness. And yet
every thin ferrule of grass hides a blade
springing up in the after-passage.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.