If it were up to me I’d fix the world. 
Pull together what is hurt and broken and 
give the kiss that only mothers can offer
—the kiss that heals.

I would brush off the bruised egos 
and suggest, being right isn’t always right.
Sometimes we need to be wrong to grow. 
We can only learn when we don’t already know. 

In my small voice I’d sing a song 
to lull us to rest when the fears are too great. 
And stand guard against the monsters waiting, 
under beds and behind closet doors. 
The monsters that we tell our children aren’t there, 
because they aren’t.
They are loose in the world 
doing scarier things than waiting patiently for sleep. 

It is easy to say what I would do 
but the still small truth 
keeps nudging its way onto the page— 
no matter how many times I try to delete it— 
my kiss and song and strength are far too often 
happier hiding, while looking the other way. 
Because the pain of this world, 
if you let it in, 
is a hand from the depths 
reaching to pull you under into despair. 

So instead I sit and write what I might do 
as if to claim there is nothing I can do. 
To release myself from the failure of 
what I have neglected. 
If I could fix the world
I’d start right now.