At the Garden of Enchantment in Golden Gate Park my
children keep heading straight for the places that
I can’t see.
Like my son darting around the bend with his one-dimpled grin,
ducking behind a large-leafed plant, and his
sister disappearing into a fog of
machine-made steam.
Already, this early, out in the world, the tug between
wanting to offer them freedom, and wanting to
keep them safe.
Nice men rape,
I read online yesterday. And today, from my bench, this bright world
feels filled with very nice men. That one is walking his dogs
towards the ocean. This one sips coffee, reading the news. That one
is smiling, laughs, tips his cap. I swallow.
I want to make them eat the eggs
I cracked open this morning. Fertilized with clouded blood.
Whisked with all our tears.
________
Amy Elizabeth Robinson is a writer, poet, and historian living in the fire-prone northern California hills. Her work has appeared in Vine Leaves, DASH, Literary Mama, West Trestle, Philadelphia Stories, and Rattle, and is forthcoming at West Marin Review. She is a Contributing Editor of Uncertainty Club, an online magazine of Zen and the arts, and sometimes she puts work that wants to be out in the world right away on her blog.
