Stolen Children

The boy at the airport
sits on his suitcase and waits.
The girl in her father’s car
clutches her book bag, a lunch box,
turns around in her seat,
presses her nose against the window.

The children watch their mothers
recede into the fog
of stolen childhoods—
where tennis shoes wait
on the floor of the closet,
blankets remain folded
at the end of the bed,
toothbrushes still hang
at the sink.

I grieve the children
stolen from their mothers—
taken in the middle of the night
from a disabled mother,
taken in broad daylight
from a lesbian mother.

The children travel the ocean,
the interstate.
Without their mother
the children make their way,
step onward,
eyes focused forward,
jaws set taut,
hearts locked down.

Published In

Some Shimmer of You

As for Life

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