Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2011 v10n1
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His Sounds
     at 13 months

Different-sized fiddleheads are questions coming up
and thinner-stemmed dandelions also
mean asking

Small scoops dig all the time into salt mounds

Being fine threads
and strings to tie up the meat
and lengths of rattail cord
his sounds bind me to him

Wrinkling tissue is a fraction
of the pleasure he takes in chrome


in the form of wet static:
a radio in a storm

[In the front seat I say to myself
is somebody
back there?
Because how can it be
there is somebody back there? . . . ]

A spine made of moths, wings pulsing

Dried leaves scrape over my neck

Next comes a long unfolding of a map

An antique piece of machine
goes around
and around
lever cold in the hand
slow, slow      

A stream of rusted water:
that’s him coming to a stop

Better hurry home  end

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