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Should I have known already
the time of his eyes’ formation,
the time they began to walk behind me,
and the visiting hours of dreams,
I don’t know from where . . .
that poets become refugees and
tribeswomen suffer chronic olive craving.
they’ll take this son of mine and make a turnip of his head.
I won’t let them.
I want this child to play, this child
to love, this child
to refuse death.
Do you know a general, dear, who has given birth?
An admiral who lives with two hearts?