The History of Words

Poetry

Alexander Freeman



His father could cuss,
lips curled into a fold.
His words spilling out
beneath his beard to
shimmer in the air
like moon beams.

When the boy was
alone under the pear
tree his young hands
would slip into the
grass and he would
whisper those words.
Feeling their shape,
their cadence, spill
out like stones from
his lips.

And now he is lying
in bed. Older.
Wondering why his own
son was snatched
away before he could
say those words, and
feel the grass in his
hands as he whispers



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