• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 12
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My Huge Son Floats Above the City

When I picture him he’s tall:
the buildings here blush purple in
his presence, his float above them,

shadows cast where the sky should be.
What is he? An airship free of
moorings, mute and huge as

Cumulus-cloud, my son the sun,
gorgeous dawn with satchel, shorts
and soldier's hat, broad as a tree.

Most of us are small, teased from
Earth like truffles, tugged from
far within ourselves like stubborn roots.

Why’s he free to turn his back on gravity?
My son the god, my freakish son
from somewhere deep inside me.

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