Fred, Separate
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. 
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