Lackadaisical cries, and the morning
is open. Outside, the world
is still dark, but in here—through
the neighbor’s walls—I hear the earth
turning. She is small, perhaps three,
and I can imagine her in the small
purple pajamas I saw when the family
first moved in. Her hair, a spring-tide
of brown curls, bounces
the more she screams. It is nonsensical,
hardly a word, but the odd, loud cries
of birds. Then, the thud
that can be heard throughout
the house, and the quiet that impedes.
This has become the norm.
We do not speak of it, we do not
show signs of understanding.
We are quiet, and the morning simply