Eleven moonsons ago,
he gave birth to a poem and
put a yellow daffodil in its braid.
Bright and soft, his cotton eyes, 
where a slow earthquake is in hiding- 
a cruel divination.
A lone star sitting still in his throat, contemplating analogy of a nightmare, without a stopwatch to help.
Pink flowers growing from his bones, 
asking for apricots to be peeled.
To have his breath on fingers, 
a non edible joy, 
like finding smile in a sock drawer.
God sleeps inside my lover's mouth, 
freshly painting a day dream with sore feets that no one will massage. 
So, I kiss his lips tenderly, 
defying conspiracy theories of abandonment every person carry in pockets. 
//And he turns his face away, 
like am a carton of strawberries 
no body is enchanted of. 
My prayers will be unanswered.//




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