Laying Out My Son’s Clothes
I still lay out my son’s clothes every night.
He doesn’t need this management. He’s eight,
and already resents my interference.
I make excuses, claiming it’s to save
time in the morning, stress on my voice,
the endless repetition of “Get dressed!”
—which is to say, Armor yourself against
the world, which already knows your nakedness;
the lies that lurk behind a trusted face;
the pathogens that slip between the seams
of masks, and haunt the margins of our dreams;
the bruised fruit that can never be untasted.
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