Ev­ery Dusk, Mother­tongue. Mother­tongu­ing Ev­ery Dusk.

Prairie Fire - - CLAIRE KELLY -

So you want to be a com­pan­ion of the streets,

my son, the sea caves and creeks where the wa­ter

is soused with dis­ease. Your fa­ther was

a cat­er­waul­ing tom­cat, with a chunk

cut from one ear. He could hear the wind change,

even when it blew soft; I could only hear

his rapid heart­beat. How your fa­ther’s heart

thumped! I never for­gave him, but I will

for­give you for leav­ing. Sons leave. Sea­sons change.

The sea is a dif­fer­ent sea ev­ery day. Al­ways,

when I taste bit­ter and un­der-ripe fruit,

I will think of you, my son.

I will think of you, my son, al­ways.

When I taste bit­ter and un­der-ripe fruit,

sea­sons change. The sea is a dif­fer­ent sea ev­ery day,

so you are for­given and should leave. Please, leave;

harken your own thump­ing heart. I never for­gave

your fa­ther when his be­gan to blow soft, could only hear

his old rapid beat. But he heard the wind

change, even with a chunk cut from one ear.

Your fa­ther was a tom­cat too, cat­er­waul­ing

soused in dis­eased wa­ter, those sea caves

and creeks. You and the streets are

com­pan­ions of want, my son.

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