Dominique Larntz * July 8, 2012

 

Every child walks a mile as my child
and they make a trail of sacred steps
back to you, beautiful son.

I see to the needs of those around me
as if the mended ghosts of their wounds
will sing in the electricity around you.

I bathe the concave wombs I can save,
fill them with loving soup and soil,
set them out in the sunlight, let them go.