His smile could raise the setting sun even
as he coughed with his baby lungs. His tears
on his last days were cold fingers pinching
my back so hard they left welts. When he died
I broke like glass, shards so sharp I couldn't
be touched. This time I'll sit next to Death, and pat
my baby's back when I feel a coldness.
Death, you're a man in fancy clothes who slides
behind doors and steals all I own. Just try
to steal my child again, and you'll meet my
Blues-singing guardians. They've seen your face.
They scratched your arms as you took their daughters,
husbands, and sons. When you hear that hum hide
yourself. They'll depress your clandestine strength.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
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