My son and his friends
are playing tag in the playground
when my son comes over
and tells me I should write
a poem about a bully
who came upon a tree
burning in the forest
and the bully
walked into the fire,
and the heat
burned away
all of his bad feelings.
I asked my son,
Does the bully turn good?
He looked surprised,
No, he dies, mama.
But he puts out the fire
and now he is the tree,
at peace.
I try to decide
if this is the most beautiful thing
I have ever heard,
or if I should tell my husband
about it later
in that whispery voice I use
when I am so worried about something
I don’t even want
the air to hear.
My son then says
I should call the poem
forgiveness
and he runs off
up the slide
trying not to be tagged
all the laughing and yelling
a strange and perfect soundtrack
to my efforts
to carve out yet another
compartment
in my heart
for things I never expected
to feel.