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To Move A Man |
He is metal: Steel. Therefore,
in me, some shrapnel, being
that I am his daughter.
His arms like rods, and
my fingers--- needle-like, inherited
with veins as cold as silver.
Our touch impales, wounds. But
burn me and I will melt
into fingernails and bones
just like my mother
who kisses the cold
cheeks of my father,
whose nerves are pallid, and
without bends---He
is never moved.
copyright 2009
Lek
Borja |
