Childhood

If it's a smile it's alright unless there are teeth.

If it's a voice and it's raised then it's time to escape

To the tree, the tree

where the wind sings through branches

bright with moon gleam, and you can't tell 

if the shivering is you or the leaves,

your  heart summoning blood from numb extremes.

Hide. There's room between the exposed roots,

a clay womb to crawl back into.

Ants queue to climb in your pockets 

hungry for some crumbs, and you can share,

it’s only fair if they're to carry you away,

a procession feted by the soft applause

of velvet paws, the trumpet blast of haunting owl calls.

Close your eyes. You wait for the parade, but it's the lunar pull

on the blood in your veins that stakes its claim,

drawing you up, up, and the branches tug at your frame like

hands, hands rough-barked and riven with fissures

grabbing your arms, your shoulders, your chin

lifted with a gruff command to look,

look up into a cratered face 

canyoned by an illuminated grin.