Children Asleep In A Treehouse

CHILDREN ASLEEP IN A TREEHOUSE / John Weinberg They sleep under a web of clouds, tired birds tossed in mud and straw. Their budding snores attract bats and the silver puffs of their breath roll into hollow caves of light, a perfect haven for moths. Night keeps unwinding its dark spool. Father watches from below, slaps mosquitos and drinks whiskey under the green wave of the arbor. He whispers out to them in vain that it is good to sleep soundly in what you've built and nothing could be simpler to him than that. Asleep among the fallen leaves and snapping branches, snagged in the heights of their own dreams, the children's faces fuse into the cold granite of night, into the chill that winds through the lattice of stars, and by midnight what will be left of them but the treble of their voices calling out for us to help them down, asking to take a step toward us into our crib of pain. 34 · The Missouri Review ...