The children on the playground sang a song
A counting song, a clapping rhyme
That no teacher ever taught them
And no parent recognized the words
One for the hole beneath the swing
Two for the face inside the well
Three for the fingers under the bed
Four for the bell that has no bell
They sang it while they jumped rope
They sang it while they drew in chalk
They sang it when the teacher left the room
And the lights in the hallway dimmed
The counting song goes up to ten
And nobody remembers what comes after
The counting song goes up to ten
And ten is where the laughter stops
Five for the milk that turns to red
Six for the stairs that go too deep
Seven for the door without a knob
Eight for the children in their sleep
The children sang it and forgot it
The way kids forget everything
But their bodies remembered
Their hands still clap the pattern
At thirty, at forty, at fifty years old
In idle moments, in the shower
The rhythm comes back to their palms
And their mouths start forming sounds
Nine for the shadow with no source
Ten for the child who counts too far
The song always stops there
No child has ever gone past ten
Not because they choose to stop
But because at ten
Something answers
From the hole beneath the swing
From the face inside the well
From the space beneath the bed
And the answering voice
Continues counting
In numbers
That do not exist yet