11th April, 2016 (“oh such darling angels”)

by Brendan Strong

6 am. After breakfast
Before my shower,
I go in to see them still
Asleep. Seeming so peaceful after
Some violence of their dreams
Leaves them sprawled upside
Down or across the bed
Blankets over their head, dolls scattered
To the ends of the earth
– or their rooms at the very least.
Anthropomorphic sacrifices
In the ongoing war that their mother
And I have demanded must end.

They don’t listen.
They sink it instead-
A whispering war
Punctuated by

One scream


One shout

Followed by the voice
Of whoever’s turn it is,
Roaring up the stairs
To chase them back to bed.

They will be hell
In the morning, she says.
And they always are.

But not yet. Not yet.