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Submitted:Mar 12, 2008    Reads: 64    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   

My father's near a harbor confronting many wives.

He didn't show them his demons, his infirmities,

his identification, his love.

That didn't stop him from sleeping with them, that day;


referred but never called.

"Pick up the stones Ma".

Blessed bastard that father beholds in his arms, her abnormalities.

Fingers like wood, skin like a gown;

a thither of the exiles, a slave to fertility.

Mother stares at the child and reaches after her;

She anoints the baby with her ointments and then she departs.

"Mother where are you going, isn't it late?"

"I leave for the famine land;

I'm nothing but a plague near your father.

I've no womb, I've no soul; I wait for the angel of death to carry me

Away waiting… for the children of men to carry on with their lives".


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