Ernesto Trejo

To The Child Dead In My Larynx

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Since morning I've been at a burial.
I dressed this boy like an angel
and took away his name. Cussed him out
and snatched away his parents. Kicked him
in the ass to prove that I'm here.

I would spill off his shoulders like grease,
he would be a zoo staring me down.
And what do we share? He gave
birth to me: I buried him
with fresh dirt and spit.

He's always shooting rings of smoke,
promises floating to heaven.
I'm a tundra where he wanders
carrying flesh under his arm.
Would he let me break in like light
through his eyelids? Would he be
a story to feed my big bones?
Would he come around to show me
the lint inside his pockets?

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