Sotto Voce

My child kicks and screams acrobatically
in the middle of the living room.
Opposite, much to her chagrin, I sit on the bed reading
“The Way of Zen” and occasionally look through
the French doors that open calmly
onto the afternoon of her sunlit hissy-fit. The world
continues its vague business outside, some birds
chirp, a motor vehicle of some sort honks,
something unknown accelerates,
that most disturbing of sensations while one is still
resenting the telephone that does not ring with promises
of adoration. I look to my wild-eyed child. She is now
scrawling on my walls with bold crayon, blinking
furiously through her forced tears, whimpering
and yawling half-heartedly, willing me to join her
in an angry display. Instead, unable even of shushing her,
which would indeed only aggravate the piquancy of her supplications,
I try to concentrate on the simplest of ideas, the breath,
another sip of coffee, another mouthful of cereal, and eventually
the next page sees me wondering why the yogurt tastes differently today
but I am assured no amount of conscious working
with the muscles of the mouth and tongue
will enable us to taste our food more accurately
and I consider whether this is ‘true’,
and of course, ponder again what that ‘means’
and soon I am in a whirl of such succulent thought
that I am allowed to ignore the wayward child
for the exact unspecified amount of time
we both needed because when I finally look up
from my book (as all books are when one finds oneself inside them)
I am smiling in recognition of something I am not sure of
and this makes me feel removed enough to feel connected again
and so when I look around for the lost child I remembered I was
to tell her that we might as well go on together
to the kitchen to bake some cookies, she’s gone
from her destructive walled-in cackling corner
and instead, has climbed inside the mirror I can't quite ever find
and she is quietly carving out an intricate impression
of a harmony happened upon when she finally fell asleep,
at least I think that’s what she’s doing, I think I hear her humming
something to herself sotto voce, she seems happier now,
even with her blunt little knife making such scratchy noises.