13 May 2006

The Wheels on the Bus

yellow comes through green
on the four wheels that
bring him home to me--
my wise child
my brown-eyed boy
pulling away from me
a kite
a wild satellite of
an even stronger moon

careening around the room--
catch me mother, catch me,
hold me, no, don't hold

your touch does not soothe--
it is as sandpaper--
but she holds him, and
holds him, chewing on
the meat of her heart in
her mouth, bloody raw, stinking
it chokes her, it chokes her

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