Lying in bed.

Lying beneath my bedpost

a cool excitement slips through the folds of my quilt.

I am the the glint in my eye,

or at least I believe it for a moment.

A bead of sweat meets the glint

and again,

I am cooled.

The blackness was like holiness

like a hole or a well that we compared to a myth,

but undeniably called it a truth.

Eyes of charcoal,

set fire looking at the sun too long

and we never spoke up to tell the children.

No, we were much too proud for that.

Now the children wait in bed

and are swallowed by shadows

where they place their good dreams

to only be remembered while they sleep.