When Children Disappear

I have come to your room to clean
but panic instead. Drop everything
and call for a search 
party. Our little girl is missing.

Suspicious evidence suggests
you were here. Teen DNA
decodes new mysterious clues
of you. The faint scent of deodorant.
Pink nail polish smudged on the light switch.
Cast off hair bands litter this room 
as discarded, unnecessary and troubling 
things. Things you have grown out 
of. Things you have grown bored of.

I bend to pick one up. A fruit rubbery ring
now circles my finger 
where your ponytail once swung.
It reminds me of rainbow-toned Life
Savers and how we used to sit close 
on the couch peeling back the wax wrap 
searching fast for all the red ones
because they were my favorite.
Because I was your favorite.
Now I bore you too.

As with any lost child
there isn’t anything 
as important as who we blame. 
As the very moment we want them back.
As urgency, regret, and 
selfishness mark the maddening 
minutes of missing them.
It staccatos against the tinny din
warning of music weeping from a stereo
they always forget to turn off. It is an echo
of loss, those bubble gum songs.
An adolescent scoffing sung loud 
and clear by the most popular band.
Expressed in the latest dance craze
you embrace, rather than embracing me. Now 
you kick and jump and grind and bump then buck free--
breaking your way straight out of my arms.


by Tammy Robacker

Email: tamsugah@aol.com