map of scars
my son in tears
on a warm june afternoon
and all of my words
turned to dustmy own childhood
always with methe sense of failure
of 100,000,000 orphans
with their hands cut off or
their tongues ripped outa minor tragedy as
the price of gas risesthis idea that i am
responsible for
the lives of others
this piece of land
scraped out
from between two hills
in a moment of angerthe river and
the bodies it holdsthe direction
it flowsalways home
no matter how lost
you end up being
