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Babysitting
March 19, 2008
I tugged the comforter to her chin.
Her eyes flashed
Veins flared, fists clenched
Wholly taciturn, she screeched.
Impassioned, imprissioned within
Four feet of bones and flesh.
Her face flushed feeling.
Her quiet, her sound.
She is vinegar. I, baking soda.
Sour attempts turn
To a snarl of contempt
Of disdain for “Goodnight Moon”
Nothing is enough.
I know hatred because
I have put an eight year old to bed.
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