Monday, December 10, 2012


Two beloved sons
seventeen years before
bartering against their good.

Wild and passionate
that just about got things done.

Firsthand knowledge
of the blacksmith power
of a constantly wagging head.

Her breast to cry upon,
more comfortable than safe,
still, better than crying alone.

Slouching, biting fingernails,
two decades of knowing
my prayers could never be loud enough.

I gave her gifts, too.
(Her list to share, not mine.)
I will only mention the one I want back.

I gave her my prime.

The Broadkill Review - December 2012

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