The Secret Mind, the Silken Nerve

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SALLY BALL

He has stars in his hair,
yellow head ashine while the moon
tousles through the window.

His breath labors in his lungs
the size of fruits; they press
out each trochee of his dream,

and then a little cough. The fever’s 
down, his face lit 
with whatever fervent story 

the moon has tucked 
behind his ear. I settle 
the blankets closer. Wanting 

to stand guard, or press him in 
beneath my sternum, fold us 
into one safe sleep, I—I always—go.
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