This is how I know
we love our children;

after the disaster,
we wade in the flood waters
holding dim lanterns like warm supper plates
hesitantly singing lullabies,
calling the children to rise from their graves
and come home to the ones that love them.

So softly now,
the waves of the ocean that is your cradle,
your mother weeps because she remembers a time
when she heard you cry, and cursed you.