YOU LIE WITH YOUR SON
EMMA KARNES
in morning His hands are dead leaves
vein-traced and early in August
They crinkle against sheets
like gauze He laughs in this dream, maybe
splashing in backyard’s baby brook,
and you almost call to him baby, back to bed, be
with me To revive those months so long
ago: reprise of black humus, sky
humid, toes creek-cold and rosy fingers
interwoven Now you make his forehead
your sun, kiss it for warmth How fast
passes summer when a child is withering.
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