after the poet asked how I would bury my brother Beyond the carrots and blind white worms, beyond the yellowing bone orchards and corkscrew roots, beyond the center of this churchless earth, beloved Peter, my little sorcerer, brought up dirty & wrong, you deserve more than to be smothered in mud. For all the gravel you were fed, for every bruise and knot that named you, I must plant you in a bed of blood-hot muscle, must deliver you into me, so I may carry you as the only mother you have ever known.
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