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Nov 142010
 

by
Simon Perchik

Dorian’s lips in ruins

and the slow song

that never catches up –her son


not yet named, almost weightless

born with a bone already broken

and his arm left to heal.


Perhaps he will remember

how sometimes even the sea

needs more room, even that tiny hand


wanting to take hold the world

–perhaps with a name, made whole

by a sound that left some far coast


shipwrecked, to make an offer.

The doctors say but what

do they know about untested currents?


He needs to be called! to be joined

and to her cries

his unfolding heart.