Structure chisels
piety from chaos
sacred from clay.
Children so alive corrected
for uniform educated
knee-bending.
Fve-year-olds fidget
bodies cry out for sanctuary
on the other side of the door.
I should pull them out
and put them in trees
to sleep the afternoon with cardinals
and dreams of carnivals, screeching or silent as the sky determines.
I have not obstructed water when it should run.
I have not extinguished a flame when it ought to burn.
But I leave them there
for fear of what this world does
to children who live in trees.
Jessica Tilley Hodgman is a writer and historian living near where she was born in Roswell, Georgia. She studied history and world religions to consider the various myths we create so we can look at our pasts, make some sense of our present, and not be so afraid of the future.
Her essays, short stories, and poetry draw on childhood experiences in the rural South and adult experiences in the urban South.
She is currently collaborating on a collection of essays on the long-term immigrant experienced in metro Atlanta. Also—a short story about a lovable septuagenarian murderer.