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What Is
by Janell Moon

My footprint on the cement
darkening with its watered
outline next to his small foot,
his stocky body in a goldfish bathing suit,
the trunk long to his knee.

We wash our hair outside by the pool,
humans rinsed in warm air,
eyes drenched blue,
toddler unfurls before love
pouring over him.
She is old clouds with boy
flowing towards a different narrative,
my hands in air, laundry
flying in breeze, his scrubbed
and freshened.

Oh pastor, he is not yours.
He is jelly donuts,
a feed of insistent sugar,
sea salt taste on chocolate.
He mingles with water and brown earth;
like fish, like sleep
resistant to night creatures.
Wire and paper,
plastic and paint
wearing new shoes.


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