Kris Becker
SPEAKING OF CHILDREN
Crows. Geese. Water. What
Can you say? Not much.
There aren’t enough words, or
Enough right words. Sometimes,
My arm when you touch it feels broken,
Sometimes my face wants to break.
Cows. A baby one. Transfer
My childish longing, what little
Nurture I allow, to the animals.
The clouds. The rain. Someone else’s child.