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The Children

ISSUE:  Summer 1970

The death of the father is my shepherd,
me maketh me three versions of wanting.
He giveth back my shadow; he restores.
He pays out and pays out the darkness.
How much does it cost to keep silence?
How much does it cost to keep calm?
It costs my brother his heart like a sleeve.
It costs for the children with no hearts.
It costs in the stomach, when it is kicked in,
on the flaming arms of the infants,
jelly to jelly it costs in the mother’s ovaries.

We are the just gypsies dictators hate.
We contain the hate and wrap it in a warm
blanket of babyfat, while the bones
wait in the children’s graveyard at the Capitol.
Or here they come walking!, hands joined by chains,
on the cobbled Calle de Niños Heroes.

If their rags embarrass you, will you wipe your nose?


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