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BROKEN.

    The park below gives us fire, orange leaves
           crackling
   over green. I gulped coffee as I drove, Grace held
                     the cold cloth
   on his head. I do I do
 he babbled
           his mantra. Our mouths chalked, minds chipped
                     and torn
   away. He never gets better
                     I said. Her lips tightened, That doesn't
help us.
 Back to our corners. Another night
                     in ER. Two bags of fluids
           through our eight-year-old son. A flock sweeps
                            over, shadows
   the flame, spiking mercury,
                            the night cracked
          into ice chips, his skin
   paling, seizing
          stopped. Some couples like us
end up broken
 Grace says, rubs
   my back. Not us
 I tell her, my hand
                     on his chest
          as he sleeps. Through
                            the window, I see
   kids swinging
                            into the sky, gulls rising, wings white
   as Brendan's shirt, the silk
                     of Grace's gown. The long field flickering,
she leans
   against me, our forms resting with his
                            in glass. A whole life of
         I do
I do.
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Title Annotation:poetry
Author:Dempster, Brian Komei
Publication:Boulevard
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2019
Words:212
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