Gray stowaway in the old world’s nailed trunk of burnt and dented pans. Sometimes my mind’s an immigrant to my body. Not unlike when the king killed his son’s little blue light of a lover, his head rolling in the dust, making the point. Mother lifts a wooden spoon. She will separate out English, separate grim fabric from guns, still-born child from sibling, sin from pride, breaking the sound barrier of the little boy’s mind. You would not think so now you must feel.