Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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Small with wild legs, the boy stole your eyes
the day he was born.

In a language you’ve tried to keep
from him, your name is mother of sorrows.

When he does not answer your latest call, dream
him grown and gone: far off, a vial of your tears
on his nightstand.

In the autumn of his blood, he will gift your hurt
to a child dying of thirst; the only inheritance
of worth in the village of your synapses.

But—for now—he’s still your boy. Sweet little
wreck. Check the room you’ve locked him in.    

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