Long as the latitude I allow love—
my one and only daughter sings along the downstroke of her thumb strum her head nodding to the ukulele neck. I keep mum as mothers learn they must who listen on the other side of window glass,
my other ear to the bush beyond where the murder birds are bound to turn in their coffin dreams. Didn’t all the angels weep when a single angel wept, wiping out the difference? I make believe I could kiss all the tears from all their baby faces crooning nothing is amiss, nothing amiss when the sweetest little bird voice breaks from the minor chord she bumbled—
is how it dawns on me
there is no right way to do this.