Everything is dear. I soak the piss

from your pants while the lilac wail

of laundry whirls beside me. Over

the ammonia scent I’ll soon forget

I caress the cotton and the clasp,

hoping texture will outlast the rot

of my synapses. Since you emerged

entrail damp, your body clabbered

in my aftermath, I have prepared for

this dropkick to your innocence, this

strictly non-Sesame Street eventuality,

still it all but breaks me. I hang up after

our nanny says you keep threatening

her family – the devil you tease will be

unleashed. To be honest, your concept

of the devil isn’t based in Christianity

but in Cuphead, a videogame which stars

gambling debt and mischievous cutlery.

Your dad assures her he monitors your

screen. I tell her you don’t know God 

has an opponent, to you the Devil’s just

a villain like the Joker, hardly potent. I

know she doesn’t believe this, the static

in the receiver a reminder that the tie

between other mothers and me is always

warped by the space I leave: your palms

prayer empty, your lips scripture clean.

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