into the deep deep ocean,
my son murmurs at bedtime,
and I wonder
who told him the ocean is deep;
deep
deep.
Cars drift into the sea
of his 3-year-old soul
awaiting extrication,
seeking salvage.
He wants
their stories told,
and he wants the telling
to take a while.
He wraps his four fingers
around my two,
leaving his thumb free
to wiggle.
It writhes
with each rescue attempt—
a rod for his imagination
to ground down
into the reality
of another failed escape.
It’s a wonder
these cars can stay afloat,
buoyed above the thrashing waves
of typhoon tears.
Unexplored emotion
makes the waters unnavigable.
He trusts I know the way
to their salvation,
and waits for the ending
with a smile.
When tired tires crawl ashore
crunching sand clutched
in whining gears and gaskets,
he knows his soul has survived the deep, again,
he coos.
Tell me
the story
again.
