Monday, 1 May 2017

A poem by Emily Light

Little Boy Blue

A boy loses himself running around the track
marks on his mother’s arms,
walks in on her with
-drawal seizures, foam quivering
on her lip. He wipes it away.
Now she’s a missing person. He’s missing
school to search the police officer’s
expression for honesty
after information dies

on the other end of the phone
line. Your eyes will melt girls someday
his mother once said. Why can’t someone’s eyes
meet his on these streets empty of her limp body?
He remembers her fizzing tongue thick
fingers probing his hands; she insists

he lie and keep her habits.
The wooden cross hanging between his lungs
last school year found a home in the ground
where he buried his tongue. He’ll dig it out tonight
blame it for everything, hug it tight.

Emily Light lives, writes, and works as an English teacher in northern New Jersey. She has poems published or forthcoming in Bop Dead City, Star 82 Review, and Ink In Thirds.

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