Sunday, August 7, 2016

Hand over a child

He asks you about the curve in your hand 
you say, it is the amount of toil put out 
shaping the bones that shape you 

he asks about money, 
you turn your head to the direction of light 
pray that he forget your answer 

you leave him stranded
eggs smashed, not cooked well on a cold day 
leave breakfast cold and then refuse to eat 

you give him a sand-grain 
when he asks you for the sea 
make excuses about sunshine and little boys' hair 

he doesn't ask, you forward the answer 
but I stand to wonder:
why bring children into the world 
when you do not want them?

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