the space between my hands and heart

i see troubles placed haphazardly around our house,
tilting precariously at odd angles off of the bookcases
and falling halfway behind beds,
and so i pick them up and try to find them
places to sleep where they won't be woken up
in the early morning by the door opening
and someone saying,
“where have you been?”
in sad and too-tired-to-be-angry voices,
and then the next scene going the same every time
as if they are rehearsing a well-known dialog
for another play about a screwed-up family
that no one really wants to see
and is more revealing of the writer
than of the supposed characters they are writing about.

but sometimes the best place for troubles
is the space between my hands
as i hold them to my heart in bed at night
and sing happy songs to them
in order for them to not be frightened and lonely.
so i pet the troubles comfortingly
and sing, “you are my sunshine, my only sunshine …”
to them, and sometimes it helps
but sometimes i can still hear the voices over my singing
and so i have to grip tighter to my troubles
than they would like,
because i have to be sure that they don't leave me
alone with myself.