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Villanelle for my Son

Writer's picture: Editorial StaffEditorial Staff

by Tania Runyan

You cried because you dropped a butter knife. Everything I do is stupid and wrong! I want to reach into your nine-year-old life,

but my mind, too, is murky and rife with the morning’s thoughts like ricocheting frogs that made you drop the butter knife.

You collapse on the couch, your naked strife abrading your throat like a funeral song. I want to reach into your nine-year-old life

and gather the joys that scattered like wildlife the first time you stared at a question too long and felt your spirit dissolve like butter on knife.

I’ve lurched and careened my way to midlife, and child, I will not lie to you: even the strong reach from the middle of their nine-year-old lives

for rescue from the wreckage, the jackknifed pileups from adulthood’s rushing throng. You cried because you dropped a butter knife. I’m desperate to save your nine-year-old life.

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