Sometimes the monsters aren't imaginary. Nineteen years before the mandap, on a Memorial Day weekend, this happened:
She of four years, nine months,
wide eyes, fragile bones,
wakes screaming, runs through
the dark house. I catch her.
She says, "I can't stop thinking about bombs."
I hold her. Hot flesh. Rabbit pulse.
"I just couldn't stop thinking."
We share a lap, a cuddle, a cup
of hot chocolate. She says,
"They scare me.
You know where they come from?
They come from Bombland .
I hope they always stay there. I
hate the people who make bombs."