Two Poems

Shadow Play

I watch shadow puppets
animate the ceiling,
as my little girl moves her hands
against the light
of our upturned reading lamp.

I summon a lecture
on what I hope will be
her first lesson in irony:

It's the light that makes the shadows.

She shakes her head, "It's the dark."

My sleepy eyes
remain transfixed
by movement above
where a puppy's head
shifts into a dove.

 

Nocturnal, Almost

Past midnight,
wallowing in the web;
I know the way out of this: four clicks
of the mouse to shut down.

Then, pull the plug
and lie beside the one
who intermittently whimpers in pain:
baby Maleeha bites as she suckles.

(But I must first
feed the hedgehogs,
which entails washing two little bowls:
one for food, one for water.)