Moment when the tongue falls
word by word
is not a poem
a poem is not a child
my child plays
with the animal figurines
standing the real
against the imaginary
the word
parts and folds
talks the truth
about the body
my child cries at bedtime
he asks are you real
I trace his name on his back
with my fingertips
the word
will be a mouth
the true body
at the skin’s edge
we read the one
about the children
who climb down the iron ladder
and hide under the ground
where the words stop
where the rocks open
and go in the dark
it flows blood
we close the blinds
the dark is outside,
the mountain, the river,
we bring darkness inside
blood, sky, sun, blood, blood
at the beginning of the story
your name
your own name
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