Loren

Late, Mom and Dad argued. The adults of this world take care of the children. Can't, Dad said, ashamed. World, hunger, children. Pay the rent, Dad said. In my room off the kitchen I faced their voices, their words fronding out, singing mazes I longed to follow. Crumbs fled on a current. Mom said, Providence arranges. I stretched thin, hungry for language, and vowed to take care of the children who came after me.