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Slow Children at Play
Cecilia Woloch
All the quick children have gone inside, called
by their mothers to hurry-up-wash-your-hands
honey-dinner’s-getting-cold, just-wait-till-your-father-gets-home-
and only the slow children out on the lawns, marking off
paths between fireflies, making soft little sounds with their mouths,
ohs, that glow and go out and glow. And their slow mothers
flickering,
pale in the dusk, watching them turn in the gentle air, watching
them
twirling, their arms spread wide, thinking, These are my children,
thinking, Where is their dinner? Where has their father
gone?
from Late, 2004
BOA Editions Ltd.
Copyright 2004 Cecilia Woloch.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced with permission (click
for permissions information).
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