A poem for the Joan McMahons

Red like the faces of adults and rosy like the wine in the glasses with

Stems on them. Thunder-like laughter and stories like songs or like waves maybe, 

Buffeting, rolicking, crashing, while, crouching, the

Child lurks. She thinks:

To sit and listen would be enough,

Sitting and listening and soaking it up.

Pirate queen, invisible, sneaking sprite, slinking cat:

To safety, and a spot on the hardwood floor.

A wooden leg to lean upon amidst

The edge of the unkempt and shimmery

Faerie circle. Couches, kitchen chairs pulled

Into the living room. And lo! A hand

Emerges down as if from her imagination

And brushes her bangs out of her eyes.