Susan Daniels Poetry

there are many ways to it
that safe spot in the yard
the oak, thicker than my mother’s waist
touching it means game over
before another round
and I have been it,
circling and chasing prey
that laughs

but no one’s playing today

waiting for the school bus
this morning
my son says
we have cameras, you know
and locks,
and that textbook mom
I am supposed to be says yes,
he has those, his teachers
and police to keep him safe
when he can’t have me,
and I have to speak it
from the toes up
because although he believes in Santa
and the tooth fairy he knows a lie
smoothed over with a hug
and a brush of a kiss
on the forehead before his friends see
and he’s on the bus
after one last shrug under the backpack

leaving me with the tree,
and I touch wood
and knock it too, lightly
to make sure that particular god
is paying attention
to the prayer hissed silent
through my teeth
as I smile and wave goodbye