Monsters

My daughter, 

still warm, 

wrapped in phantom blankets, 

tucks her face 

into my elbow 

and whispers: 

Mama. 

I can’t sleep. 

I’m afraid of the dark. 

And I want to tell her, 

there is nothing 

to be afraid of, 

kiss her head 

and send her 

back to the pillow 

that so recently 

cradled her wild curls, 

smooth the 

worried wrinkles 

from her forehead 

and rub the fears 

from her back 

like my hands 

are a magnet 

and fear is only 

slivers of silver. 

But 
the lie catches 

between my teeth-  

lies breech 

under my breath. 

There is so much 

to fear, 

that we fear 

even the things 

we do not yet know. 

Snakes 

and spiders 

and traffic 

and the IRS 

and retirement 

and finding love 

only to lose it 

and being 

too loud or 

too quiet or 

too tall or 

too short or 

too far away 

for love to hear 

our call. 

We fear numbers, 

days, 

flavors, 

political groups, 

heights, 

being talked about 

behind our backs, 

or never thought of 

when we have left the party 

to return home 

to the bed 

that smells like 

safety. 

So instead, 

I pull her closer, 

shield her 

from the monsters 

that threaten to invade 

her dreams, 

and promise her 

solemnly: 

It’s okay, baby. 

I’ll always be here.