Issue 50, 2012
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“A Boy Cupping a Cricket Turns to Us and Says” by Robert Ostrom
A sled with too many reins
to go anywhere. My father who is not
my father sews my hands together. Around
a table where the people resemble, dazzled
like horses staring at each other. We ate
mixed berries with sugar. The bower bloomed
under which it was always cold in my hair.
There was an Easter morning. Every question
was the same question. Until the house
began to speak. Then, the skin of your face
in a box of old faces. Where you made
mouths in the grass, you made mirrors
of me. Suffering impersonating suffering,
the evening routine of little brown bats.