There are times, each day, when their child leaves them—
briefly, for half a minute perhaps—
though she remains standing among them
with the toy or book she is holding.
Her body goes stiff, her pupils lock in position.
She cannot see them. All they can do is wait
until she is given back to them.
Then they asked her where she has been
and she answers, surprised, that she has been with them
the whole time. But they don’t believe her;
they think she guards some fantastic secret,
a momentary vision of heaven
so intense that it stuns her. They cannot believe
the alternative, which is nothing—
those mock deaths, over and over, for nothing.