lauren harwyn, poem, poetry, feminist, liberal , gun, children

Boy.

Boy.

This river doesn’t name me Achilles.
It knows infant, burbling air-breather,
drowned. I gasp up and a mother
let my ankle go unglazed.
Who wants a superhero for a son, anyway?
Kneeling on the battlefield,
I gnash my teeth to think of her.
I may have won many victories, but why
encase me in this cracked armor,
write my history with severed hands?
Who looks at their child and sees a god of war?

 

Lauren Harwyn, 2016

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