(by Daniel R. Jones)
I walked in on my wife
playing charades.
Our children didn’t know
they were part of the game.
Some days, she didn’t know either.
TWO WORDS
Rubbing together two needles
like the legs of a cricket,
she conjures hats, scarves,
amigurumi monsters
the children take to bed.
FIRST WORD: MATERNAL
If I squint it looks like ritual,
the tedium of bedtime routine:
overnight diaper, dinosaur jammies
read two books and brush your teeth.
Boys to the bunkbeds, girl to the crib.
SECOND WORD: LOVE
Golden curls encircle
lavender bubbles;
soap-soaked fur of a
labrador doodle.
This is love by proxy.
Care for the children
through care for the dog
bought for them to care for.
A pantomime, an acting out
of the second word.
MATERNAL LOVE
This motherhood is a lifelong game of charades.
The children have an inkling, I think,
that the swabbing of walls stained with crayon,
and the meticulous slicing of hotdogs
is pantomime, a charade of that larger abstraction.
The clues are there and the message pans out.
But they never do understand the scope,
the magnitude of what’s being hinted at.
Even as a parent myself, I suppose,
I never plumb the depths entirely.
Bez&Co 
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