Of Poems in Bones

No one ever raised
Children well enough
To protect them from
All horror, to save
Them from their own deaths.

No one. What are you
Doing? What do you
Think you’re doing here?
But you read some poems.
Read the mother ones,

The ones where mothers
Who are poets try
To catch or confess
What mothering’s like,
Doubts and shortcomings,

And all the rest. Think
Also of all bad
Or indifferent
Poet fathers who
Often only wrote

Children poems at birth
Or at death. Poets
Aren’t like composers
Or basketball stars,
Whose children follow

In their steps, much less
Like politicians
Or dynastic clans
Striving to rule and
Poison each other.

Poets raise children,
Well or poorly, more
Or less, and success
Is measured by how
Few add to the mess.