—I’M ONLY INCHES FROM THE FLOOR

 

 A capella

 

The new children sing 

in their chains, 

the strength of their small voices 

ricocheting off the sides of 

root cellars, 

showers of dirt 

falling into their hair, 

speckling their teeth.

Each week another progeny

is rounded up and set down 

to keep the upper world free 

from menace and hazards.

So be it, Amen, Amen.

Two holes over, Momma Gee,

the oldest surviving child, 

takes up her own note, 

part cackle, part soul scream, 

a chord that covers them all 

like the wide-open arms of sundown.

They’ll be no prayers before sleep,

no more wishing on false hope 

or the charity of masked marauders.

Tonight, in dreams,

even the blind kids 

will rattle their steel. 

Maybe yours will, too. 

Have you seen them lately?