Paris, 1984
by Elizabeth O'Neill

    The moon is high in broad daylight.
    Rooted, like winter squash in August.
    The soft thud of hatred echoes in her
    body. She wakes in the night to listen

    to its rhythm. A child, broken and
    twisted, falls from the sky.
    No mistake in the garden,
    no error in the heavens.

    Her insides twitch and burn
    and curve. Love goes mad, a child
    conceived in sorrow, his mother torn
    from the earth and spinning, spinning.






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