Hothouse

I scare myself 
When they freeze in the chilling air 
Shift of me entering the room. 
Frightened, I suppose. 
I am only watching out for them, 
Warning them that my own home 
Has already grown cold. 

                                                                                                         The warmth 
                                                                                      Of her gaze, of her hands 
                                                                        Kneading dough in earthen bowls 
                                                                                                Endeavors to hide 
                                                                        Secret, silent sadness spilling over 
                                                                    The ravines of every palmar crease – 
                                                                            I accidentally appear, she smiles. 

Her overworked hands turn out the lights, 
Her wrinkles deepen looking upward. 
As she turns away, his gaze is lost
In the sky and stars, who are not strangers 
To his pacing and hardened stance 
To his hopeless head in hands 
To think so much is worse than being perceived. 

                                                                     I wonder if he chooses to be unaware 
                                                    That his daughter, too, dwells the twilight hours 
                                                       Asking the fiery-haired woman in the lightbox 
                                                                                                               How to live. 
                                                        Her expression entranced, face a blank canvas. 
                                                                         In her lap, raven-colored curls peek 
                                                                      From beneath tear-stained comforters. 

The little one is my favorite. 
I’ve seen her soul before, 
The way she wanders the window room 
Slender fingers tracing every tuft of fabric 
As if absorbing each individual object. 
She dances and slips about in the sun

And cries at nightfall, as if seeing them all. 

                                                            I saw her again, forever later in the field 
                                                                        Trying to recollect her memories, 
                                                                       To reclaim the childhood she lost. 
                                                                         These beings hold onto so much, 
                                                                               Kept in that deep, dank, dark 
                                                                                          Place they rarely visit. 
                                                                       The lights perpetually remain off. 

And as I drift about this oasis, 
This small haven behind that structure 
With salves and remedies, 
With children running in the streets at dusk, 
I wonder 
If any other sees this from the same lens 
I do.