Because I love you, I buy the Superman backpack,
three tubs of glue. I hold up the different folders and
let you decide: tigers or LEGOs, stripes or battleships.
I do not tell you what I am becoming. I do not tell you
I am afraid. Last night they played the screams of some
people dying. Last night they showed their guns in the
air. How does a mother hold her terrors? How does
a school become a haunted place?
I n the morning, I take your picture in front of a sign,
gaps in your teeth. I do not say a life without is not
worth living. I do not say I've memorized every inch of
your frame. Instead, I wave at your hand waving.
Instead, I say a quick goodbye.
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