Small with wild legs, the boy stole your eyes
the day he was born.
In a language you’ve tried to keep
from him, your name is mother of sorrows.
When he does not answer your latest call, dream
him grown and gone: far off, a vial of your tears
on his nightstand.
In the autumn of his blood, he will gift your hurt
to a child dying of thirst; the only inheritance
of worth in the village of your synapses.
But—for now—he’s still your boy. Sweet little
wreck. Check the room you’ve locked him in.