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Rehearsal.

To my son who might not speak,
 whose first word longs to break
--
Pans on the kitchen floor, small to big
you stack inside the Dutch oven.
You master this, unstack, one by one,
a clang-bang cacophony, corners
of a cracked language. You don't flinch,
don't slam the cabinet door, the window
wide to the element of your making,
your senses, floor deep with noise.
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Author:Falcon, Lane
Publication:The Carolina Quarterly
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2019
Words:101
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