The on-the-cement angle of ants,
burps, farts, God’s views on
bad words vs. murder.
He’ll talk pirates, ghosts, the Bloody
Red Baron, the efficaciousness
of dream catchers to catch bad dreams.
My son wants Darth Vader to be his father,
to ride down the hill, the hill to be sky,
the sky pulsing black space, himself a star.
What matters to my son:
four square, rescue chase,
the particles that remain,
iron pyrite, roof tiles
that could become dinosaur scales,
glacial rock up the wrong trail,
volcanoes vs. the Richter scale.
In the back garden he finds
the ancient marble.
Flattened bottle caps
that others rush past
he, in secret pockets, holds fast.
Deborah Bacharach is the author of After I Stop Lying. Her work has appeared in The Antigonish Review, Arts & Letters, Cimarron Review, and Literary Mama among many others. She is an editor, teacher and tutor in Seattle and teaches poetry workshops for children.