Tumult

He has a round face
eyes like his mother
a nose like his father
both of their faces layer his skull
both of their souls peer out of his mouth.

He has a voice that carries
his voice moves through the TV
he can be heard at night
shattering the sky
he can be seen at dawn
gathered in plastic.

I watch his face
inside his voice
unlike his mother
unlike his father
not the elders
swinging flags

no, the cold sun
the sullen moon
who moves too,
even for this son.

 

 

 

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