Falling (A Villanelle)

I told the child: everything that falls
does not explode, despite what you have seen.
She sighs, the child sighs, aghast, appalled

at how the falling sky has ripped her dolls
apart, shredded kittens, made obscene
my telling her: everything that falls

does not destroy.  I think perhaps two walls
remain, a window pane, mosquito screen,
I lie.  The child sighs, at last appalled

not by my words but by the shallow lull
that falls into my breath, that intervenes
and tells the child: everything that falls

has risen once--a shout in a darkened hall,
the songs of children rising like a dream.
She’s eyes.  All’s eyes.  The ghosts, appalled,

cry out: it isn’t just our bodies mauled
but our bent souls crushed, cut brutal, clean.
I give the child everything that falls.
She sighs, the child sighs, aghast, appalled.


**

Also: I've got a poem up at A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.  Check it out when you have a minute.