An unidentified noise stalks
our home, bearded as a freshly freed
convict, wavering on the cusp
of madness, in search of a childhood memory,
gasping, as if for air, or blood.
They hear it, too. I tuck them
in protective plush promises
then scuffle until morning with ghost
children, whose windows and doors
once let in more than a breeze.
There are no bodies rotting
in the woods behind our house,
I say nightly in the language
of forehead kisses and fairy smiles.
Boot soles aren’t sticky enough
to scale a brick wall,
but my children cling to me anyway,
willing us to the third floor.
When I say I’ll keep you safe,
what I mean is, I’d move tomorrow.
I want to believe our neighbors
are rearranging furniture.
That the alarm’s siren would,
like a baseball bat, shatter
an intruder’s stride. That
my children will never haunt
the graveyard of future parents’ dreams.
