What did the milk know
\nwhen my youngest spilled it
\nfrom a cup all those mealtimes
\nexcept to follow the long slant<\/p>\n
of our table that led to my lap,
\nand what did the four
\nchildren know when I rose
\nto invoke the name of our Lord,<\/p>\n
except to laugh, then laugh
\nbecause they shouldn’t, and how
\ncould my son, the lover of books,
\nwho crawled under our new<\/p>\n
mattress to discover a curtained
\nchamber, read to himself without
\nlighting the candle? He was no less
\nsurprised than I was, waking up<\/p>\n
from my nap and smelling smoke,
\nthat he’d set the box-springs
\non fire, and when my two oldest
\ngazed, as if for the first time,<\/p>\n
at the topmost windows
\nof our rented barn feeling
\nan itch in their fingers for stones
\nsmall enough to fly,<\/p>\n
what were they to do but search
\nfor them? It was only delight
\nthat called their attention
\nto the milk that jogged past<\/p>\n
their plates down our table,
\nand to the candle that lit up
\nthe chamber, and to the sharp,
\nwinged stones, and when I<\/p>\n
warned them or chased them
\nor drew them toward me for my
\nexplanations, it was only delight
\nI wanted myself, my lessons<\/p>\n
breaking into shouts, my spent
\nlungs struggling for breath.\n
Hear Wes McNair read this poem.<\/p> <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n