Dear sparkly superball,

My son has made for you
a Mommy’s house––

primary-colored shack of Legos
with two cactus flowers stacked

alongside the racecar flag.
And Daddy’s house, a press

of plastic, pastel blocks
that seem to be all fingers

wanting to weave. This compound
has no door, so we lift then lower

the roof when it is time for
your nap. We didn’t expect

it to come to this when we
brought you home, little friend.

We thought you’d bounce
and sparkle as all superballs

do, unencumbered by lineage
and location. Who knew you’d have

a make-believe mother waking up
in the middle of the night, trapped

in the perfect press of her make-believe
household, standing over your empty bed. 

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