The Glass Children Poem by Richard Cole

Our children seem indestructible at times,
Racing through the iron playground with energy
That’s almost frightening, and then

It happens. My son falls. I hear the tiny finger
Snap like cold taffy, and slowly a crystalline tear
Rises at the corner of his eye. I know he’s ashamed,

And I hold him, smoothing his hair, waiting to explain
That for years his mother and I had tried so hard
For flesh and blood, but I can’t.

Each year, our children grow stronger, gradually learning
How brilliant their bodies are, how easily
Broken. Each year, they become more graceful,

But my youngest daughter still tugs at my sleeve,
Telling me something in glass, and she sounds
Like someone rubbing a wine glass until it sings

Even as she tries to speak, each word ascending
Helplessly into perfect tones,
And she cries when I can’t understand her.

At night, my wife and I lie awake, talking quietly
About the children, about ourselves, and she asks
If I still want her. I squeeze her hand,

And I wonder if we’ll always have the faith to make
More love. I wonder if the love we’ve made
Will always be glass.