Last. Child. Last. Child.

We do not speak in tongues or hold séances—

hands on a table,

ear to a distant hymn, as if our ghosts were nimble

advocates of speech. Away from trances,

we believe in the close-knit village

of our voices; rarely believe in voices

we can’t hear. A word depends on impulses—

air-catch, air-lease—that hold its meaning hostage.

Language, like the dawn, is the defeat of hours

and a second’s gain, to look at new geraniums

and say, timelessly: pink thumbs:

two words that leave the womb as flowers;

it is to hear, inadequately, words like “last”

and “child,” in threat of twilight. Say it again,

please: “Last. Child. Last. Child.” While a judgment

rides home, to its homecoming. Shouldn’t we ask

who and why, the plot and the dénouement, the ache

for endings? One child’s asleep now;

the other’s fitfully awake.