A blue light comes on
and a triangular wedge of cool mist
appears, its far edge
disappearing
into the unknown.
One of my twins
delights in it,
carrying it from plug to plug,
repeatedly ecstatic that its
being
is refreshed—
Ah, the mist! Ah, the light!
But no—his joy comes before that,
when he matches the prongs to the
holes:
resistance
then give.
His brother
is circumspect,
avoiding the spangled energy
just behind the walls.
It resonates in his arms
and makes the stumbling pathways of
his brain
go dark.
Though one night,
sensing something,
I awoke.
From down the hall, I saw him,
a small, dark form on his knees,
no movement but his narrow
chest’s
careful expansion,
worshipping the blue light
and its attendant breath.
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