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First Grandson

January 23, 2010 by ·

Leatha Kendrick


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.

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