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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
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