My niece small hands

My niece, small hands,

a crumpled page

of what she calls 'art'

shoved it quick,

under the bed frame,

dust bunnies and dark.

The gap, I remember,

how important that space was.

My twin bed,

the wooden skirt,

a dark, narrow slot

where forbidden things lived.

A comic book, bent spine,

a rock I'd stolen,

heavy and cold.

The secret journal,

lock broken,

pages filled with furious script.

That private dark,

where shame and glory

could sit side by side,

safe from the light,

safe from eyes.

A small, soft-edged danger,

just out of sight.