Children making a list of the kinds of love will say
“doggie love” and “love of flying” and “pizza love”
and even “love of colors,” “love of money,”
and I knew that when I started the exercise with
a roomful of eight-year-olds typing along
to the scratch of my scented marker
on the sheet of roll paper taped to the wall.
The list got beautifully long, like a banana flower.
After the workshop, they all
skipped out of the room to their parents,
and I wrote “parents’ love” in a bit of free space near the top.
My intern looked embarrassed when I said
“maybe it’s better that they don’t know.”
No one can see what ball of fire
holds them tight.