Elizabeth Laborde | The 2River View, 9.4 (Summer 2005) | ||
The Passing
I am dreaming the dream of a bird set outside a window one chirping bird keeping you awake, tiny wings flapping, flapping, flapping, baby—or you—a man of thirty-seven years twisting through Kansas, mice, a man who devoured everything. You said I had to choose, a mother. I had to choose; your knife cleaved into the windowsill, was never quite glowing in that place, that funny northern place where whose mother left you in a closet, whose mother left you for heroin, or a bird, you and a truck destined for winter storage, a winter in a remote or a baby, a bird I could have saved with enough crumbs, with enough in the morning, that disappeared, only fireweeds left, stirring |
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