falls from your kid shoulders. He says he was a correspondent,
which means writer, which means
he didn’t fight. His advice:
“Words are weapons, arm yourselves”, so you read
the names of tress (now streets) as I read the stitches
unraveling the patch of his name, a ghost
with phantom limbs so heavy they sink
in the ocean lapping our front door.
Later the water spits his jacket on the sidewalk,
one long thread that you stretch over your bones
in a limping hug , arming yourself.
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