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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|Publication:||The Carolina Quarterly|
|Date:||Mar 22, 2019|
|Previous Article:||The Uses of Rain.|