A stranger’s chest, the color almost peach
if you go by Crayola. I confess,
though they’ve advanced my childhood 64,
I still forget. I learned that shade as flesh.
This issue won’t go with us to the beach—
its hooded, shackled men in women’s dress;
for if our children spread it on the floor
what would we say? You’d look at me. I’d stress,
No monsters here. The cabin door is locked.
I might decide the pictures aren’t real
should Mary wet the bed. How would we deal
if John’s Why? was more curious than shocked
when sounding out a sentence: . . from another beach. . .
the sunset streaked with umber, tan, and peach.