Writing

Because it is 11:10 pm
and you know where your children are.
Because it is 11:10 pm
and now you could be writing,
but you look at your children while they sleep
and after that
you look at pictures of your children while they sleep
for theirs is a beauty that leaves you mute,
nearly unable to do anything but labor
and perform silent declarations of love and fear,
left hand caressing the softest cheek,
right hand repeatedly checking
the breathing motion of the sleeping back.

It takes sacrifice and courage to raise them.
It takes selfishness and courage to write.
How does one find a way to balance these juxtaposed twigs---
specifically when the one that is the truer love
is the stronger and more balanced,
but the one that is calling
needs to be held forever perpendicular
like a perpetual crucifix to the other
lest, hiding alone,
you trip on it
like a crooked snake in the grass
all the days of your life?

It is the hissing sound
and not the sight of it
that drives a mind to madness.

Because it is 11:20 pm
and it wasn’t as hard as it seemed.
Now a mother again checks on her sleeping children.
Left hand poised again in love over downy cheeks.
Right hand poised again in fear over sleeping backs
for a few moments before
heading off to bed herself,
satisfied and quieter of mind
with a slightly emptier head.