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you don't have to tell me
again, agave
why you are carrying bloody blonde hairs
wrapped in that wrinkled ivy, i know,
memories of that sorority party.
out in the hills beyond town, i cried, too.
through the leaves, following weeping red pawprints.
i saw the dogs sleeping, and i knew their bellies
were rounded with most of my still-steaming son.
but what did you do when the belly, agave,
was yours, and it ached in the memory of
having held the young lion you killed for a god?
i know too, what it is, having them wander
just inches beyond your fingertips.
we couldn't protect them for long, agave.
Copyright © 1999
Hannah J Sassaman
All Rights Reserved |
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