| For the father who wakes and wakes himself, eyes full of himself and for the one, who when the sun descends slips into the stormy smite flat the rotundity o’ the world. Done in with conspiracy and murder in his sleep (his eye-tooth finally unfixed and tucked into a cheek for safekeeping) he dreams of a three-armed garment unable to wonder or comprehend how he has come to this blurred ridge and broken— I try to fix in my mind, his shining eyes the terrors he shut his lips against and his early morning utterly lucid accusation: “I never would have believed,” he said to me “that you would be among them.” Copyright @ 2014 by Lisa Sewell. Used with permission of the author. |
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