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Writer's pictureteenbellemag

the moon and her dying earth, by Julia Ortiz

how do i tell my children that

this is their inheritance?

this knotted mess of anger

tangled up in bones,

no.

i can’t watch them saddled

with an age-old grail

nor with fifty pounds of history

strapped to their backs. but look

how well they carry in the midst of flames

sweeping up and

down.

the world stands trembling in the dark

and uneasily will wait, poor fool,

like the lot of us, for God to intervene.

i would will myself to be a wild dog

and teach my pups to claw and snarl,

puncture their wants with their canines and shake,

lick their aching wounds and dance,

and howl incessantly to that orb of midnight sun.

oh, my son, i’m not sure what will come of us.

what i can promise is all I have:

this roof, these words,

and, of course, my warmth

until i’m gone.

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