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The Temple of Many Hands by Christopher Locke < back  : index  :  next >   

B l u e

Childhood frightened you, reduced
your heart to a pity of leather,
and you’ve nothing left but
this vague memory of thirst,
a midnight in Iowa, February snow
muscled into stark dunes against
the house, and the anxious footfalls
of your mother made real in candlelight,
having already lost one daughter,
your sister, to the nameless fever,
and how your small damp frame
dishragged the sheets, sweaty
mumblings under a cornsilk
of blond hair, and your mother
holding a wet cloth to your head,
praying, pleading that it all breaks,
and you will again see the house
fill with light, resplendent, as if
emptied from pitchers carved
from the bluest air.


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