Because the keening cry of mourning never came.
Because his mother’s tears didn’t curl and burrow into the earth
silver and sharp as the forks that till the black soil.
Because hope races across the fields like snowy fire,
the tips of his ears as red as clay, and his head thrown back
swallowing the sun with all three eyes like he was born silently
on the umbra of a black hole.
His heartbeats sound like the push and pull of the farmer’s hands
greeting and digging through the skirts of the earth
as if lost. She watches him run.
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