Magdalene (19)

Eric, my dear,
When I held you in my arms,
Looking at your blank eyes,
I knew that you would drift,
Into your own shoals,
Forever tilting away
From the weight
Of voiceless bruises,
Clutching, as always,
To the fragrance of possibility.

You would sit, my lovely son,
On bar stools,
Postmarking your sweet tales
Of a hunter’s conquests—-
Regal deers, coiled snakes,
Forgetful salmon.



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