She caresses his tiny head.
Her stubby fingers touch the soft crown.
She lifts his mouth to food.
He pulls back.
Leaving an apple sized space between her breast and his mouth.
Some were naked. Some were dancing in each other’s clothes.
She sweeps the toy soldiers and bits of apple peel from the table
and lays down her clean white cloth.
She spreads a feast.
Some were naked. Some were marching in each other’s clothes.
She is weeping now.
It has come and gone.
Leaving nothing but darkening flesh, a woody stem
and an apple shaped hole in her son’s breast.
Some are naked. Some are dying in each other’s clothes.
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