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Noel King: Patrick

Noel King

Dec 01 2015

1 mins

Patrick

 

The day my son died

his mother I held

in the crook of my arm;

his little body cold

on pebbles between us.

 

We’d let him

paddle on the one-inch shore

until he caught the swan

like it was a moving toy

or our cat at home.

 

We’re split now,

his mother and I

never had more children,

either one.

 

Sometimes I still climb into

the attic, step over the circle of track,

sit on my haunches,

set the train off, watch it go station

by station reaching no destination.

 

Noel King

 

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