Breath

Kwame Dawes

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A young boy stands in the doorway to a house, playing trumpet, its bell pointed triumphantly towards the sky. He smiles slyly and looks straight at the camera.

This song came from me—
my breath formed this sound,
full of groove and hope,

my breath pushed up
against the shadows
and made light
bright as a horn.

My breath will make you
remember the coffin.

My breath will make you
remember the laughter.

University of Virginia Virginia Quarterly Review
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