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Sep 2011
It’s gotten too heavy, child.
Much too much
for your weakened knees,
your delicate wrists.

You’ll never be a dancer
or a poet.  A singer, a lover,
a sister, or the President:
Baby Boomer lies. Baby,
we're going nowhere

and it’s heavy.
Heavy like your breathing,
heavy and full
like your blue moon eyes.
Jessie Anna H
Written by
Jessie Anna H
712
 
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