Leatha Kendrick
Photo: rolands.lakis
This boy sleeps on my lap,
his fists curled and pink
as April oak leaves. His feet
root against my arm. His
head a soft arc against
my bent arm. When I reach
across his belly’s curve,
my arm brown-spotted, pale,
his breath unfurls
a scream. I am
the rotting log
he grows upon.
