We raise them in lemons, in buttercream, in cornmeal,
we cut the crust off every loaf and serve blueberries
to those who can't abide the crumbs. We let them
 
ride our arms like cowboys, and when their imaginations
cry elephants, we give them elephants, thick skinned
and wrinkled, but theirs. We sail them off due west,
 
into the froth of their own desires, tell them their lives
will roll like the hills behind the hills behind the hills
into a mist the color of tamarind and smoke. Lovely
 
parenthood, open and bright, sunlight through a window,
a hand smoothing sheets over the bed, Lego basketed in a corner.
The refresh button under my index finger, set to the local news site
 
pressed over and over and over and over to discover
if my child has gone to war.

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