Afterwards

Nothing prepares you for the cold stone
contours, crags, gashes, gullies, gouges
of a broken body. Empty sepulchre,

my son.

I lift him, drag him backwards,
wrap round him, make believe
my blood is running through him,
feel him come to life inside me.

Taste the bitterness of knowing.

Smell dead sweat.
Start to wash him.

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