Some nights when I’m half-asleep,
I hear Mama’s voice say my name.
Other times, it’s Daddy, calling out.
I awake, half-expecting to find
myself again in the back yard, hiding
behind the overgrown honeysuckle
intertwined and clinging to chain-link.
Mama holds open the kitchen door.
Or Daddy unlatches the fence gate.
And I, a half-wild child, emerge,
long dark hair tangled with burrs,
palms and knees stained red with clay.