The Library of Congress

 
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Poem Number 112

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).