Children and Death
Elizabeth Jennings


Not to be spoken of, they will not let
     Us enter rooms where anyone has died,
And they put candles by our beds, a light
     That keeps us watchful and more terrified

Than any dear familiar darkness where
     Our shadows slip away. We dream of death
Sweet and apparent in the freedom there
     And ape a dying by a withheld breath.

Nor do they know our games have room enough
     For death and sickness. We have stretched them out
Further than childhood or parents' love
     And further even than the breath of doubt.