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Histories 7

by Chris Abani

As I grow older I want to hold my mother.

Hold her to my chest and soothe her.

Cradle her head that is small, thin as a sparrow’s,

and say, He loved you, he did.

All those years, they count for something.

And the only lie would be the not knowing.

And I am a man, too.

And like my father, bad, bad, bad.

from SanctificumFind it in the library

Copyright 2010 Chris Abani
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Chris Abani Poems

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